


Lost in Dreams

by ImmaRwaffle



Series: Lost in Dreams [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arcane Warrior (Dragon Age), Asexual Character, Bethany and Carver Hawke Live, Blood Magic (Dragon Age), Circle of Magi (Dragon Age), Dragon Age II Spoilers, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Dragon Age: Origins Spoilers, F/F, F/M, Grey Warden Inquisitor (Dragon Age), I Love Zevran Arainai, I hate the darkspawn redesigns, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Magi Origin (Dragon Age), Main Character is technically a well-preserved Arcane Horror, Minor Character Death, Modern Girl in Thedas, Multi, Multiple Origins (Dragon Age), Multiple Wardens (Dragon Age), Not all are grey wardens though..., Origins to Inquisition, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Present Tense, Putting the romantic in necromantic, Reincarnation, So I'm using the ones from origins, Surana is here to kick ass and chew bubblegum, Surana learns ALL the specializations, Tags May Change, The Blight (Dragon Age), all of them - Freeform, and she's all out of bubblegum, back when they actually looked scary, does that make it necrophilia???, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 40,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26619427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImmaRwaffle/pseuds/ImmaRwaffle
Summary: You do not know how long you have wandered the Fade and its endless, shifting paths.The longer you linger, the more you fade.  You cannot afford to forget again, no matter the cost.And you will not allow another world to burn, even if you must first reduce it to ashes yourself.---A girl from Earth becomes lost in dreams among the Fade.  Stripped of her memories and her physical form, she must possess the body of another in order to cross the Veil.  Usurping the Surana origin, she must juggle searching for pieces of her past with attempting to save Ferelden and the rest of the world from the Blight.  And making use of handsome elves, of course.
Relationships: Alistair & Female Surana (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Blackwall | Thom Rainer/Female Cadash, Cassandra Pentaghast/Male Trevelyan, Cullen Rutherford/Female Surana (one-sided), Dorian Pavus/The Iron Bull, Female Aeducan/Leliana (Dragon Age), Female Amell/Female Trevelyan (Dragon Age), Female Brosca/Sigrun (Dragon Age), Female Tabris/Velanna (Dragon Age), Female Trevelyan (Dragon Age)/Original Female Character(s), Jowan & Female Surana (Dragon Age), Male Amell & Female Surana & Jowan, Male Amell & Female Surana (Dragon Age), Male Amell & Jowan (Dragon Age), Male Amell/Morrigan (Dragon Age), Male Lavellan/Josephine Montilyet, Morrigan & Female Surana (Dragon Age), Morrigan/Male Warden (Dragon Age), Zevran Arainai/Female Surana, Zevran Arainai/Female Warden, Zevran Arainai/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Lost in Dreams [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1936468
Comments: 21
Kudos: 67





	1. The Well of All Souls

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic on this site. I'm still working out how to post so forgive any bugs. This will probably have sporadic updates due to scheduling and motivational issues. But I do plan to finish this, so bear with me.

You wander the winding paths of the Fade, untethered and listless, slipping between one dream and the next. The raw Fade dances around you, melting and mending endlessly.

You do not know how long you have roamed the land of dreams – between one blink and the next you simply _were_. Your existence is abstract, and time holds no meaning here.

You have encountered other spirits in your journeys; Valor challenged you, Inquiry questioned you, and Awe wondered at you. Their existence is definite, reflected in their very essence as manifested Aspects. Yours is nebulous and intangible – you do not know your name, the concept you embody. You wander the Fade in search of answers, but they evade you tirelessly.

Your form is born of Ether, mutable and featureless; resembling a wraith, but with more substance. You mimic the forms reflected in the minds on the waking, but they fee; awkward and ill-fitting. They aren’t the right shape, and your pieces didn’t fit; like mixing jigsaw puzzles to depict a strange and distorted picture.

You stray often into the dreams of mages; whose consciousness remains even as they lay sleeping. Some attempt to coerce you into making deals for knowledge or power. You cannot grant power on its own, but you remember the proverb that 'knowledge is power' – though you remember not where you heard it – and share what you can. You wonder if you are Knowledge, but though it is integral, it is not your Aspect. You keep searching.

Most decry you a demon and attempt to vanquish you, or ignore your presence entirely. Their ignorance enrages you. You wonder if they are right; perhaps you are Fury – but though you burn with it, it does not consume you. You keep searching.

You happen upon an artist in the throes of despondency. Their muse had deserted them and the font of their imagination had run dry. You inspire them, driving them towards increasingly magnificent and impassioned creations. You do not bother to wonder if you are maybe a spirit of Inspiration or Creativity, but you do not stop searching.

You retreat from the minds of dreamers into the realms of various spirits. You frolic with Whimsy, lament with Grief, debate with Pride, and lounge with Sloth. You wonder if your ambiguity of purpose means that you are Apathy, but this conclusion grates at you too much to be true.

The answer comes when you stumble upon a Harrowing being performed by one of the Circles of Magi. The apprentice is terrified, jumping at every shift of raw Fade that surrounds them. You think of what form would comfort them – rat, crow, wolf, bear, so many _options_ – and decide on human. You do not impersonate any specific memory of the mage or other dreamers you’ve encountered; it slips over you naturally, seamlessly. This form feels impossibly You.

They are still frightened at your appearance; you can feel their will pushing upon you, attempting to change your form, your purpose, your _essence_. You push back against it, overpowering it. You will not change your nature so easily, not be bound by expectations forced upon you by the ignorant.

You calm them, guide them through the Fade. You shape it into something familiar and comforting instead of new and strange – rows of books spring up around you, called forth from the recesses of the mage’s mind. You now stand within the memory of the circle library.

They cling to you, the first non-hostile they have encountered this side of the veil, but are still wary. You are not angered by this; it is wise to not trust so easily when surrounded by demons pushing for entrance into a warm, living body in order to experience the waking world through their own eyes, not as mere reflections in the Fade.

They ask what your Nature is. You tell them that you do not know.

“But how do you not know what kind of spirit you are?” they ask, “Every spirit knows what their Aspect is, it’s integral to their being! Unless you’re a new spirit or some sort of ghost?”

You are not a new spirit. You have wandered and been torn apart and stitched together again. You cannot remember a time before your manifestation in the Fade, but you are not _new_ by any stretch of the word. Other spirits may be older but you have watched time pass in the dreams of the waking. You have existed for nearly six Ages, at least. You have journeyed deep into the Fade to seek reflections of ancient ruins and battlefields and see the remnants of lost civilizations – watched as hosts of spirits vied to reenact ancient wars both famous and forgotten.

The last of your thoughts burns through you, bringing with it a flurry of hazy impressions and imprecise recollections. You remember someone else speaking those words, but cannot remember who said them or when it was said. It has a layer of unreality to it, even more so than is usual within the Fade. Attempting to remember the interaction leaves you with fleeting sensations of a wolf, pointed ears, and a strangely detached feeling of irritation.

“Ar lath ma, Vhenan,” echoes into the Fade around you. The apprentice looks at you with interest.

You shake your head, dislodging that trail of thought before you give yourself another headache. You inquire after the second thing they hypothesized you to be.

“The Chantry says that the faithful are taken to be by the Maker’s side in death, while those who turn from the Maker’s Light are left to wander the Fade for all eternity. And if you don’t know what you’re a spirit of then maybe…” they trailed off uncertainly.

You ponder this. You do not remember a time you did not wander the shifting paths of the Fade, and yet… something prowls on the edge of your conscious thought, shying away when you reach to grasp it with immaterial claws.

No matter, you will scrutinize the recollections when you were not on a time limit. A demon is hunting this little mage and the Templars have a sword poised above their chest, ready to drop at the first hint of demonic influence. Time is of the essence.

You lead the mage through the bookcases and further into the Fade realm conjured for the Circle’s Test of Will. They prove inquisitive now that nothing is actively attacking them; shielded from the more malicious denizens by your presence. You answer every question you can to the best of your ability, ranging from magical theory, to history, to funny anecdotes from your journeys throughout the Fade.

When they self-consciously inquire about what the world outside the Circle looked like, you twist the Fade around you to show an ancient forest, with wooden walkways winding between the trunks. They gasp and gaze up at the canopy in wonder.

“Is this the Brecillian? Or, or, Arlathan?” they wondered aloud. It isn’t either of those. You have never happened upon a memory of Arlathan, and although you have viewed scenes of the Brecillian Forest, that is not what you had conjured. The forest you had grown bred a sense of familiarity, calling to a forgotten part of you that thrummed in nostalgia. You have been here before.

Emboldened by that sense of familiarity – more than you have ever experienced before in spite of your dogged pursuit of answers – you call forth other images from the recesses of your memories; instinct more than conscious though shaping the Fade around you to your will.

After the forest comes a sea of dunes spreading on for miles, the only sound the howl of wind through the valleys. Next; a bed of lava, frozen in rolling waves and deep crags; a deep ravine carved into red rock – the Grand Canyon, a long forgotten part of you whispers; an erupting geyser surrounded by iridescent pools inside the caldera of a dormant volcano – Yellowstone National Park; an ice flow across from an arctic tundra, great slivers breaking off and crashing into the surrounding sea, forming icebergs, with the Aurora Borealis dancing next to the Milky Way above your heads, reflecting on the ice along with the light of billions of glittering stars.

You stare at the night sky searching out constellations – Cassiopeia, Ursa Major, The Big Dipper, The Little Dipper, Orion— …Libra. You let out a breath that feels like it was punched out of you. Libra, the Scales— that is You. You are Libra— _a_ Libra— it doesn’t matter which. You have found a piece of yourself, jostled something loose and now memories are flowing into you, filling in the blanks of your sense of self.

The apprentice had fallen to their knees as the Fade kept reshaping itself around them. They are openly crying now, gazing up at the sky in awe and wonder. Spirits of Awe, Delight, and Joy flit on the edges of the scene, drawn by the mage’s strong emotions.

You let the scene fade back into the twisted structures and chartreuse sky of the Raw Fade without your will molding the ambient Ether into the desired shape. The apprentice collects themselves, wiping their eyes on the sleeve of their robe and you continue through the dream realm.

You remain lost in thought, sorting through the new memories you have unlocked, and the mage is silent as they walk beside you. You come back to yourself as you happen across the demon summoned for the sake of the ritual.

It is a spirit of Temptation – a rare, but powerful Aspect to be embodied, due to its pervasiveness. Anything can tempt you, from a warm bed and hot meal to a sultry glance. If you had not stepped in it likely would have overwhelmed the callow apprentice.

It tempts the apprentice with power, knowledge, a life of freedom, away from the Circle and the pervasive eye of the Templars. It takes the form of another apprentice, a dalliance that the mage had formed an attachment to, and talks of a life together, raising children and studying magic in peace and solitude – if only they would let it _in_ , they could have all this and more.

The apprentice wavers, the temptation of a life free from Templar supervision, surrounded by loved ones and the ability to pursue their interests to their content without overview calls to them on a visceral level.

No animal enjoys being caged.

Before they are lost, you reach out to them, touching their mind with yours. What are the chances of you evading all the Templars within the Circle and managing to escape? You are surrounded even now with a blade at your throat. Even if you do, they would hunt you down with a prejudice using your phylactery. It speaks false promises it has no way to deliver upon, do not allow it to possess you.

Their resolve strengthens; their Will pushing back against Temptation’s. They fire a blast of ice at it and a struggle breaks out in true.

Even though combat in the Fade is a matter of clashing Wills, the demon is a powerful one, and is still liable to overpower the apprentice by brute force. You call out to other spirits within the vicinity, appealing to their Aspects to provide support against Temptation while firing your own volley of spells. It is not the first time you have done battle against spirits within the Fade – you have been torn apart and forced to reassemble yourself from various fragments of Ether; picking up your own assortment of magical offensive and defensive tactics.

Spirits of Valor, Justice, Defiance, and Spite come to your aid against the demon. Attacked on all fronts, it decides to cut its losses and flee farther into the Fade to evade pursuit. Justice and Valor follow despite this, but Defiance huffs and floats off while Spite spits in its direction and stalks away.

You are left primarily alone with the mage once again. They turn to you with gratitude spilling from their lips. They embrace you and you freeze – you have not felt the touch of another warm, _living_ being since you woke in the Fade. You had not realized until now how _cold_ you are. They pull away and you are once again left in the cold air of the Fade; the sense of loss is more acute now that you know what you are missing, and puffs of breath crystalize in front of your face.

They give you one last teary smile and a heartfelt goodbye, cut off in the middle of a sentence as they awake between one blink and the next.

You are alone, and you are so, so _cold_.

You drift back to a more familiar section of the fade, ruled over by a spirit of Sorrow. You did not know what always called you back to their domain, but it resonated with something inside of you.

They do not have a particularly large portion of the Fade, there are surely larger chunks ruled over by stronger spirits or demons, but there is enough sorrow in the world to keep their realm from returning to the Ether.

You have spent many evenings in their realm, mourning a loss you had forgotten. With the returning memories came fresh waves of sorrow, and you fed the cold clasp of anguish into the heart of their realm. It shifted and twisted out of the distorted reflection of Kirkwall’s Circle and into a city cut from glass and steel.

Great towers stretch into the sky, fortified with metal skeletons and glittering as the sun’s rays struck the glass panels that acted as windows. You have seen nothing like it in other memories born of the Fade, not even those of ancient dwarven civilizations. They do not mimic the architecture of Orlais, Tevinter, or even Elvhenan.

Skyscrapers, a distant part of you echoes, and it is accurate. Their peaks brush against the clouds.

The sun slips below the skyline rapidly, blurring the sky into purples, pinks, and oranges. As it dips below the horizon, the sky fills with stars – the same constellations your eyes had sought in the open tundra – and the city comes alive with _light_.

Neon signs blaze on buildings, burning themselves into your retina. The sound of traffic picks up and cars speed past, taillights and traffic lights shining as they race by. Snippets of conversation flare around you although the streets were empty.

Spirits and wisps flock closer to your manifestation, intrigued by the unique and unusual sight, but you ignore them, eyes locked on the concrete jungle unfolding before you.

As the lights of the city burn brighter, the stars dim and disappear, leaving the sky a pitch-black void save for a resilient spark here or there. Polaris still shines true, pointing due North.

The city shines so bright it outshines the stars, you think semi-hysterically.

You collapse to your knees on the sidewalk as tears well in your eyes. The cement is solid and rough on your knees, pebbles digging into your skin. You have not abandoned the form you had taken to calm the mage during the Harrowing. It fits perfectly, hugging tight to your form and filling out the gaps left between your Ether. It feels right. It feels like _You_. It _i_ _s_ You.

You are so caught up in the sudden physicality of your existence that you do not notice Sorrow gliding up behind you.

“So, you have remembered again,” she speaks.

“What?” you croak, long unused to utilizing vocal cords to communicate sounds. The Fade is a plane of thought, feeling, and Will, not physicality. If you wished to communicate, you could do so despite all apparent barriers. Within the Fade, the blind could see, the deaf could hear, and the mute could speak. You had not needed a true voice for longer than you can consciously remember. It sounds strange to your ears.

“This is not the first time you have recalled fragments of your past,” she muses, sitting upon the curb next to you, “although it _is_ the first time you’ve recollected enough to create a clear image like this.” She gestures to the city still whirring around us. Spirits have taken to acting out the conversations and interactions echoed within the streets. Shades of people in sweaters, jeans, suits, and sundresses roam the sidewalks, talking on the phone and laughing with friends.

In a restaurant across the street you watch a waiter trip and break a stack of dishes with a kind of distant sympathy and amusement. It seems too unreal. It seems too _real_ to be reality.

“If I’ve remembered before, why can’t I remember who I am?” You ask with a detached interest, too removed from the reality of the moment by the simultaneous surrealism of everything around you. You feel like you are hearing everything through water, looking at everything from somewhere just over your shoulder. This isn’t happening to you; it is happening to someone else; you are just observing.

She places a hand on your shoulder and it grounds you in your body once more ( ~~a _body_ , you have a _body_ now~~), “The Fade reflects the memories of the waking world; the less there are to remember something, the less easy to find it again. I do not know from whence you came or how you came to be here, but there are no others who are capable of remembering a city of metal such as this. You are an anomaly on both sides of the Veil.”

“But they’re _my_ memories! How could I just _forget_ all this?!” you wail, throwing a hand out towards the now densely populated streets.

“And you are a denizen of the Fade now, for whatever you once were before. It is still possible you were born of the Fade itself – it would not be the first time a spirit took on the mantle of a mortal, forgetting what they were,” she continues, unmoved by your grief.

She is Sorrow, Grief is as natural a part of her as breathing. The eternally red and puffy eyes above tear-stained cheeks are testament to that.

The thought that you aren’t really whoever you keep forgetting you are – that you are just pretending and the constant struggle to regain pieces of yourself is for _nothing_ – it _terrifies_ you. You reject it wholly and violently, shaking your head and letting out more sobs.

She does not comfort you more than a squeeze of the hand still on your shoulder. She is Sorrow; she draws out misery in those dwelling within her realm, she does not abate it. She is not Comfort or Compassion – it is beyond her ability.

“Iphigenia,” she speaks suddenly.

“What?” you question again.

“My name, it is Iphigenia,” she reiterates, “When you first came upon my domain, you named me after a myth you remembered. One of the Trojan War.”

The words spark a series of recollections – of Greece, and Rome, and the Gods between – “Iphigenia, daughter of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra; sacrificed to the Gods for victory against Troy.”

“A tale of tragedy, and” —a tired and fleeting smile crosses her face— “sorrow. Not many would make a friend of Sorrow, but you are ever an outlier. In return for the company, and patronage to my domain, I’ll grant you some advice.”

You wait with baited breath.

“Leave the Fade,” she entreated, and you are baffled.

“What.” And that really is your favorite word today, huh?

“For as long as you stay in the Fade you will keep forgetting parts of yourself; it is the nature of the Fade acting in accord with your nature as a spirit. If you wish to retain your memories you must leave the Fade before you forget again,” she explains.

“But how? I may not remember much but I do know it’s pretty hard to cross the Veil,” you snark back at her.

“You could attempt to get a mage to summon you into the Waking, but that carries the risk of being bound or turned against your purpose,” she pauses in thought before resuming, “There are weak points you can slip through, where the Veil is thinned by death, intense emotion, or excessive use of magic. I wouldn’t advise you to travel through without a physical form; which can be difficult to manifest, but it is even more tricky to manipulate the Waking without one – and appearing to mortals as a spirit is a quick way to get yourself destroyed. I’d recommend finding a vacant corpse to inhabit or making a deal with a mortal in exchange for their body.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” you blurt out, incredulously, “are you recommending _possession_? You want me to _possess_ somebody?! Aside from that being wrong on _so_ many levels, I’m not even sure I can _do_ that! And wouldn’t wandering around as a shambling corpse get me attacked anyway?”

“It is the simplest solution,” she replies blithely, “and there is no better way to find out than to try.”

“No, no, absolutely not, just— _no_. I am _not_ possessing someone,” you declare, aghast.

“You do not have many other choices if you truly desire to remain complete and not be attacked on sight,” she continues.

“How are you so okay with suggesting this?! It’s insane!” you argue.

“Perhaps, but is insanity not preferable to fading away into anonymity?” she contends.

You open your mouth to respond but fall silent. Considering your options, it _is_ preferable, even if you are a horrible person for even considering this line of thought.

“Okay, what about someone in a coma? It’d be vacant, right? I could just slip in and not have to impose on someone’s free will?” you suggest hesitantly.

“Those who cannot return to the Waking wander the roads of the Fade endlessly; even if the body is alive, the soul has not moved on,” she answers.

“So, instead of trapping them within the body, I’d be preventing them from ever returning at all,” you groan dejectedly, then sigh and try another angle, “I don’t want to be a creepy old corpse, and I don’t want to steal someone’s identity… What if I possess a baby? I don’t really want to share, and I don’t know if I can possess someone who isn’t born yet – or if it’d be vacant – but what if it was already dead? If I time it right, I could slip in without arousing suspicion or having to experience decomposition first hand, and I wouldn’t be stealing anyone’s identity because they didn’t _have_ one yet.” You are pleased with this plan; it is not without fault but it has the fewest drawbacks and most benefits.

“It would seem you have a plan,” she muses, “but if you hope to accomplish this you will have to be vigilant for the moment a soul passes over and a body becomes available. I would recommend picking an area that has recently experienced a large amount of death to ease the transition.”

You beam at her with the new found confidence of those with a goal and the means to accomplish it, “Thanks Iphigenia, really, it means a lot to me. If I’m still able, I’ll make sure to visit.”

( ~~Misery loves company plays in the back of your mind.~~ )

She blinks a few times, clearly taken aback, but a genuine smile breaks out across her face as well. You doubt she can recall a time when anyone had last thanked her.

But now— _now_ you have a _plan_.


	2. Into the Waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Step 1: Find body  
> Step 2: Possess body  
> Step 3: ???  
> Step 4: Profit

In the end, you settle on the Denerim Alienage at the heart of Ferelden. It seems familiar to you, and familiarity often is the key to stirring lost memories.

Possessing a citizen of the alienage would most likely mean you would grow up as an elf, which was somewhat disconcerting as whatever you were before, you are fairly sure you were _not_ an elf. In fact, you are pretty convinced you were a human, or at least something close to one based on the appearance you glimpsed when looking into the reflective glass on the skyscrapers you had conjured within Iphigenia’s realm.

But past life of being a human or not, it won’t matter once you had entered your body of choice. You would live the life of an elf ( ~~walk a mile in their shoes~~ ) and would thus _become_ an elf, regardless of shape of spirit. Really “go native”, as they say ( ~~who says?~~ ).

You press against the fabric of the Veil, watching closely as a mother struggled to give birth in the early light of dawn. You have watched three so far, but this one seems promsing. It is a tough birth, and it seems possible that either the mother and/or the babe will not survive the process.

It sickens you to be waiting on death like this, but you have little choice if you wished to keep the memories you have recently unlocked, and possibly recover more. Time is of the essence.

A wail breaks through the relative quiet of the night as the midwife catches the baby as it exits the mother. She cuts the umbilical cord and swaddles it in a ragged blanket. The blanket does not look nearly as clean as it should be if it is wrapped around an infant.

The midwife hands the baby to the new mother, who grins tiredly at it and rests it on her chest. It latches on and begins suckling immediately as the mother drifts into unconsciousness. She isn’t dying, but she is exhausted after the hours-long ordeal.

You continue watching avidly for some time – it is hard to judge exact measurements in the Fade – as the baby moves more lethargically and the midwife continues bustling around, picking up the infant and depositing it in a crib in the corner of the room. It is growing weaker, the spark of its newborn soul dimming as it struggles to keep its eyes open.

It falls into sleep along with its mother soon after it is placed down and the sun slowly rises over the alienage’s walls. As the sun grows higher, the baby’s breathing slows and grows labored; sounding wetter and coughing in its sleep

This is your chance. As the sun reaches noon, you slip into the baby’s dream within the Fade and tug the connection between its soul and body; slipping in beside it with little resistance as it struggles and weakens, before extinguishing entirely.

You are alone and in possession of a body within the Waking. You have succeeded.

_You are finally warm again._

…You are also hungry, and still having difficulty breathing. Reaching into your newly corporeal form, you search for the problem.

Ah, your lungs are filled with fluid and you’re pretty sure babies aren’t supposed to have such a high temperature. That’d do it.

Calling upon your connection to the Fade, you begin purging the impurities this body was left with. By the time you can spare the awareness to take notice of your surroundings and no longer have to manually force your heart to continue beating, your new mother has woken up and is standing over your crib cooing at you.

She reaches down and brings you up to her chest, rocking you and supporting your fragile head. Your baby reflexes cause you to immediately latch on and begin feeding.

Oh, _gross_. You can’t wait until you can begin consuming solid foods and put these humiliating years behind you. _These_ are a few memories you’d be all too happy to forget.

Outside of the moments where you just have to lie back and think of England ( ~~where’s England? Why do you know it?~~ ) as the bigger people bustle around and ensure you do not suddenly die in the night; there is little capable of holding your interest, and so you turn your gaze once-more to the endless mysteries of the Fade.

You reinforce the boundaries of your new Dream Realm, anchoring it more firmly to the empty mind of your vessel. You had never before bothered to claim an area of the Fade as your own – there was always friendly territory to fall back on in case of emergencies and you could not explore the vastness of the Beyond to your hearts content if you remained in a single spot, shown only that which was reflected in the minds of mortals that passed through your domain.

With your focus turned towards remodeling your dreamscape into a duplicate of the glittering metal city you had recreated in Iphigenia’s realm, life in the Waking passed as though _it_ were the dream – featureless and indistinct, with days blending into one another and no clear determinant of the passage of time – until you wrestled more agency from your caretakers and own bodily functions.

It had never occurred to you while in the Fade that you did not, in fact, know how to speak the languages of the majority of Thedas. Within the Fade, communication was a matter of will and intent; if you desired to be understood, the Fade would translate thought directly to another. Conversely, if you did not, you would remain unintelligible.

Language, luckily, is something you had a bit of a gift for. You quickly learn by ear and pantomime, your first word being a rather unoriginal, if heartwarming, “Mama”. There is a pause, and you are unsure if you’ve said it correctly, but your mother is delighted, and picks you up, showering you with kisses.

You begin walking as soon as your legs were able to support you; toddling around the small and ramshackle house and following your mother around the alienage, being cooed at by adults. They remark on how quickly you are developing, and what a bright little da’len you are. Your mother always smiles tightly and changes the subject.

She had been drawing away lately, leaving you closer to your father than her.

Your father works as a dockhand, loading and unloading shipments on human vessels come to Denerim for trade. He had learned his craft in Amaranthine, a port city dependent on its oceanic trade routes. He whistles as he whittles, and sits you on his knee as he tells stories of his birth city, or holds you on his shoulders as he strolls through the docks with an easy smile and sure stride. He walks tall for a city elf.

You grow to love the smell of sea brine and fish; it is fresher air than would be found in the labyrinthine Poor Quarter of Denerim – of which the Alienage had it the worst – where the stench of open sewers and festering filth permeates the air. Only the wealthy districts have truly cobbled roads; everywhere else makes due with packed dirt streets, which grows slick and muddy during the rainy seasons.

Your mother works as a maid for the Arl of Denerim in the southern Palace District. As a babe, she would carry you in a sling on her front, but now that you were older, you stay with the other children in the alienage, to be watched over and taught by Hahren Valendrian in the shade of the Vhenadahl. He is a relatively newly appointed Hahren, having stepped in after his mentor was killed by humans during the last Purge.

You hadn’t known what was happening until your father burst into the bedroom – pulling you from the Fade at the violent bang of the hinges – with a panicked look on his face. It made you seize up in mirrored distress; he was never afraid, always a rock in the face of adversity. Whatever had put that look on his face had to have been no less than life threatening. He reached down and threw you over his shoulder, running out of the house.

The night was lit with flame and the dying screams of slaughtered elves. Ash and cinders seared your lungs, the scent of charred flesh clogging your nose. He ran down side alleys, keeping out of the humans’ sight, until he reached a door and knocked in a secret rhythm.

It had been a terrifying ordeal to live through, huddled in the basement of one of the neighbors, surrounded by terrified faces and quietly sobbing children, holding your breath in order to not make any noises that might alert the mob as to everyone’s whereabouts. Those caught outside were overwhelmed by the mob. Those trapped inside… you could only hope the smoke reached them before the flames did.

Only one of the elves who had been ensnared under a beam had survived the night – although with gruesome burns and a haunted look in their eyes.

Outside of that ordeal, life runs smoothly, if simply, without any course-corrections until it becomes clear that your mother was expecting another child. Your father devotes more time to her, and the midwife from your birth makes a reappearance.

You all share one bed, unable to afford another until it is strictly necessary, so you assume that this all happened on one of the nights they’d sent you over to another house in the alienage. It isn’t hard to guess what they got up to during those times.

You are staying with another one of those families throughout the birthing process, in order to not be traumatized or distract the midwife from her duties. The citizens of the alienage live a very communal lifestyle, half from tradition and the other half born of necessity.

The family you are staying with has two children; a boy two years older, whose parents were lost in the Purge, and a daughter your age. They introduce themselves as Soris and Venissa Tabris, with equal reluctance.

The name resonates with that forgotten part of yourself that whispers things half remembered and taunts you with knowledge of your lost Self. Venissa Tabris, you decide, is interesting, and a definite clue to unlocking the mysteries of your past.

You attempt to saunter over to where she is sitting beneath the Vhenadahl – although it is more of a waddle – and plop down beside her. She startles, and clutches a stuffed version of a poorly stitched mabari closer to herself.

“Hi, I’m Anuriel, what’re you doing?” you ask with a childish lisp, and she peaks out from behind her dark hair.

“Waiting for Mamae,” she mumbles with an even worse lisp. Adorable. “Is Siona your Mamae?”

You honestly have no idea, but that sounds right, and saying no would likely kill the conversation, “Uhuh. What’s his name?” You gesture at the stuffed mabari she is still clutching like her life depends on it.

What a master of conversation. Truly inspiring.

“Garahel,” she pauses, before beginning again hesitantly, “He was the hero who ended the last Blight. …He was an elf too.”

That vaguely rings a bell. Maybe you saw something about him in the Fade? “That’s cool.” Right, this conversation is going nowhere. “Do you want to play?” you finally ask.

She looks at you appraisingly for a long moment, but eventually nods her assent and stands up to go somewhere more open. You get up and follow her.

You end up playing Tag; Mages and Templars – a variant of what you remember as Cops and Robbers, with similarities to the Guards and Bards common in Orlais, or the Wardens and Darkspawn of the Anderfells; and Heroes – where children pretend to be various famous heroes from Thedas’ past, such as Cormac, Dane, and King Maric Theirin during his campaign against the Orlesian Occupation.

By the time your father returns from the docks to pick you up and take you home, you’ve already split off, tired from the day of activity. That was the most time you’d spent with another child out of class since inhabiting this body. Toddlers aren’t the most stimulating of company, and all the adults are a combination of too busy and unwilling to discuss serious topics with a minor.

Your new baby brother looks like a wrinkly potato, is your first thought upon seeing him. You scrunch up your nose as you lean over the makeshift crib set up in the corner of the room that used to belong to you. You have no idea what anyone was talking about when they call newborns cute – they look like little Martians.

You take a moment to wonder about the existence of a planet called Mars, named after the Roman God of War. All inquiries about a Roman Empire got you a strange look and a huffed laugh as they rustled your hair – messing up your braids, dammit – and wrote you off as an overly imaginative youth.

“Don’t crowd him!” your mother shrieks, startling you out of your musings. You look at her with wide eyes and draw back from the crib unconsciously.

You watch your father put an arm around his wife’s shoulders and murmur to calm her down. She leans back into him with a whisper that isn’t quiet enough in return, “I don’t want her to hurt the baby.”

Wow, that… unexpectedly hurts, you think, as tears sting your eyes. Why…? Why would she think you’d do that?

Your sniffles bring the attention of your father back over to you, and he quickly scoops you up in his arms, whispering sweet nothings to sooth you, and stroking your hair.

“Papa,” you whimper miserably. Stupid childish body, with stupid childish emotions! You are better than this! That woman’s opinions of you should hold no bearing on your mood!

Your eyes meet hers over your father’s shoulder, and you are more stunned than you probably should have been to see her fear reflected so clearly back at you. You glare at her, burrowing deeper into your father’s shoulder as he transitions into an old elvhen lullaby, and are bitterly vindicated by her deep flinch.

Your father holds and rocks you until your tears stop flowing and you are lulled to sleep once more, drawn across the veil into the emerald waters of the Fade.


	3. With Neither Blade nor Shield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surana is taken to the Circle, where she awaits her Harrowing and the arrival of Duncan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, inspiration was never lacking but I felt that the words failed to properly capture it. Perfectionism: the true bane of all writers. Happy Dragon Age day!

Life in the alienage is… _stifling_.

You are rarely allowed outside the walls – never without supervision – and even then, you only ever see the Market District or the docks and the streets on the way. You aren’t allowed to wander farther than a few feet away from your attendant before being called back or frantically looked for, severely handicapping any exploration schemes you might have hatched.

You aren’t taught how to read the written language, which appears to be comprised mostly of dwarven-based runes, and don’t have access to any books in order to learn on your own. Libraries are for the wealthy, scholarly, and elite. Schooling is for nobles, wealthy merchants, Chantry Initiates, and Templars. Any avenue of learning you might choose to pursue is doubly closed to you as an elf. You are not allowed to join the Templar Order, or take vows for the Chantry, and would never have the backing to make it into the prestigious College of Orlais. Afterall, who has ever heard of an _elven_ Revered Mother, or even Knight-Captain? The very idea is _laughable_.

It really is too bad; you wouldn’t have minded being a Cleric, even if they made you sing the Chant every day.

The only things you are taught are a few old tales by Hahren Valendrian; how to properly scrub floors, wash dishes, make the bed, clean the laundry, and dust the furniture; and how to properly load and unload cargo from a docked ship. Most common folk work on a sort of apprenticeship to an older, more experienced laborer and set off to practice their own trade once they’ve learned all they need. Some are lucky enough to inherit a family business, but all businesses run by elves are doomed to exorbitantly low earnings and infrequent patronage.

You are being raised as – _expected_ to be – either another overworked housekeeper or underpaid dock hand. Just another elven servant. It _rankled_.

The only bright spot in this literal cesspool, is the time spent with your family and friends.

Your younger brother, Salim, has your father’s dark hair and his mother’s cloudy blue eyes, with the sunniest smile you’ve ever seen – when he isn’t pouting for affect, of course.

“Nuri, Nuri, tell us the story about the sleeping elven princess again!” he chants, rousing the other children with his speech. He’s become quite the little leader to his own gang of misfits.

Charismatic little bugger.

“Alright, alright, I’ll tell you Sleeping Beauty again,” you capitulate. The little monster has you wrapped around his finger and he knows it, the scoundrel.

You love him.

“Let’s see, well, ‘Once upon a time, there was an old King…’” you begin telling the story.

Despite Salim turning out to be a social butterfly, you have remained just as solitary as you were before, only really counting Venissa, Nessa, Illen and Rajmael – Taeodor’s rebellious younger brothers – as your friends. Sure, you have _some_ form of interaction with everyone in the alienage, usually polite at least, due to living in such excessively close quarters and the necessity of community, but you only really _enjoy_ hanging out with those four, and Salim.

More faces, older and weathered, join the semicircle as you continue recounting the fairytale. Apparently, new stories are enough of a novelty that you often end up with a much larger crowd than you’d started with. Everyone within the alienage is aware of what a wonderfully active imagination you had, to be making up all these fantastic things. You know that you have heard the one you are telling before, but you have made up enough of them that it still held true.

By the time you finish, many are chuckling and smiling fondly, eyes shining. A few children fake gagging at the sappy ending but just as many are giggling and running off to go act out their favorite parts.

You are left alone once more, kicking at the pebbles strewn about the dirt roads of the Alienage. The air was nippy and soon bits of frost would be covering the ground. Winter came on swift and sure in Ferelden – the farther south one went, the colder it became.

You often have nothing to do in between the bouts of entertaining children or being taught by Valendrian, or the other adults. It reminds you of when you drifted listlessly through the Fade, searching for another scene to occupy your interest for as long as it took for you to become bored again.

You _hate_ it.

So, you make do with pilfering books, translating fairytales, and establishing your corner of the Fade. Occasionally one of your friends will invite you to join in on a game but their childish antics are unable to distract you from your torpor for long.

You are pulled out of your brooding by the appearance of Siona, your body’s mother. Ever since the confrontation years ago, relations have been strained. It is hard to be close when you are constantly aware of the wary way her eyes follow you, and the distance she holds you at compared to Salim. She plays the part not of a mother, so much as the reluctant nanny of an enfant terrible.

“Anuriel,” she begins stiltedly, like one might approach a stray dog with a high chance of rabies, “the Revered Mother has come by again, aren’t you going to join the sermon?”

Ah, yes, the sermons. Benevolent chantry mothers come to preach the word of the Maker to the poor, blasphemous elves and their wicked heathen ways. Never mind that the only reason they were _in_ the alienage in the first place was because their ancestors had pledged to convert to Andrastianism instead of worshiping the Evanuris in the wake of the Exalted March on the Dales. The Mothers never came without adequate protection either; a contingent of Templars in polished armor – their spotlessness a testament to the purity of their faith and a direct contrast to the fetid squalor around them – with hands ever at the pommel of their swords, ready to strike down the first knife-ear to allow their gaze to linger for longer than was wise.

What do they think they are protecting her from? Elves are prohibited from bearing arms upon pain of death, and if they fear a mob, it was less than the alienage fears the retribution that would come for harming even a single hair on a precious, _human_ , clergy’s head.

No second amendment here, no Serah.

The last time an elf had killed a human – in a fist fight by the docks, not even a planned assault – the Alienage had _burned_.

For a moment, the afterimage of flames dance in your eyes and the foul, lingering stench of burnt flesh stings your nose, but you blink them away.

Still, you squint at her in bemusement. She is devout, no doubt about it, but she had ceased gathering you up to take to the Chantry in the Plaza or to attend semi-regular sermons since quite a while ago. She still dragged Salim along to hear the Chant, but she was more than happy to leave you to your own devices in the meanwhile.

“Why? You haven’t bothered dragging me along lately, what’s special about this one?”

Her smile turns even more strained, and her eyes dart away from you. “It’s important to heed Andraste’s teachings. Only when the Chant is sung at all four corners of Thedas will He return to bless us with His Light, and open the gates of the Golden City.” As her eyes refocus, she licks her lips and flexes her fingers.

You have a bad feeling about this. Something isn’t right with this situation and it was raising your suspicions.

“But do I need to hear it every Sunday? Honestly, I could probably recite the Chant in my _sleep_ at this point.” It was true, you could. Not the whole Chant of course, it took _weeks_ to sing and you didn’t have it all memorized, but nothing was stopping you from reciting it within the Fade except the sheer _boredom_ it would induce.

“Young lady, you will not speak about the words of the Prophet that way!” she snaps. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she holds out a shaky hand, “Just come to the sermon, okay h-honey? Salim misses spending time with you.”

 _Ooooh_ , playing on your affection for your brother was a _dirty_ move, but you weren’t going down that easily. She could listen to that old woman preach about praise and obedience all she wanted, but you would have _no_ part in it. Not when it was causing her to act so weird and _twitchy_.

“I think I’ll go play with my friends instead,” you say slowly, watching her as though _she_ was the mongrel with rabies. My, how the turn tables. You try to back away but she swipes out and snatches your arm in a vice grip.

“Anuriel, I am your mother, and you will listen to me when I tell you to!” Her eyes seemed to burn with a righteous fury, superseding the constantly spooked and apprehensive woman she had been for most of your childhood with a will of steel. _This_ was the woman your father had fallen in love with, not that cowering nug she so often portrayed herself as in your presence.

While a stunning change to behold from one you thought so little of, it was rather inconvenient for you at that moment.

“Let! Me! GO!” You shriek, struggling against her grip as she drags you through the streets of the Alienage towards the sermon. People stare at your odd procession, but she doesn’t care, leading you on with a single-minded focus so seemingly out of character for her.

She stops pulling you only when she reaches the edge of the assembled throng, though she doesn’t release her hold, which is bordering on painful. You are sure to have a bruise.

She jerks you towards her, bending down and hissing, “You will sit here and _listen_ to the Revered Mother!” Spittle flew into your face. You flinch back at the spray, grimacing.

She turns her heated gaze onto the man behind you. “Cyrion, _watch her_ ,” she commands, then storms off towards the front of the crowd.

You fume in silence next to Cyrion’s awkward countenance. He isn’t used to dealing with Siona’s feisty side, you guessed. Although Adaia was quite the spirited one too, so who knew.

Venissa peers around him inquisitively, “What’d you do to piss her off?”

“Venissa!” Cyrion whisper-shouts, appalled, “Watch your language! Especially in front of the Revered Mother!”

“Sorry, Papa,” she mumbles sheepishly, shrinking into his side again.

You huff in faint amusement before answering, “Dunno. Whatever’s got her goat, she’s in a right fit over it.” You glance around, “Where’s _your_ mom?”

“Working,” she shrugs nonchalantly.

“ _Right_ , what does she do again?” You drawl.

“Classified!” she chirps.

“ _Sigh_ , I never should have taught you that word,” you bemoan your fate as she bursts out in cherubic giggles.

The Revered Mother preaches on as you continue needling each other, soon joined by Nessa, Illen and Rajmael, with Taeodor and Soris lingering uncertainly on the edges, as usual. They are equally awkward, but they get on well enough.

It is odd that Salim hasn’t joined you, he practically idolizes the ground you walk on. It is one of the things that makes him so adorable.

As the sermon draws to a close, your group of rambunctious children disperses, and you go in search of your wayward brother.

You find him closer to the back of the crowd than was usual, sitting under the shade of the Venadahl. He picks at what sparse greenery there is about the base of it, looking dejected. You sit down next to him, leaning back against the rough, painted bark.

The Venadahl is perhaps the most colorful thing in the dreary Alienage, decorated with streamers, painted in vibrant – though now fading – colors, and carved with a delicate finesse found nowhere else in the architecture of the Alienage.

It truly is the pride and joy of the elven people.

“Salim~” you sing, “What’s wrong? You’ve got a pouty face.”

He doesn’t react to your light teasing, which drew more concern from you. This might be serious.

“Schatz, seriously, what’s wrong? If you tell me, I’ll try to fix it, m’kay?”

He shifts, still not looking at you.

“Are you going to leave, Nuri?”

It is spoken so quietly you almost aren’t sure you heard him.

“Leave? Why would I leave? And where would I go if I _was_ leaving?” You joke a little before growing serious again, “Why would you think I’m leaving? Who told you that?”

"Mamae...” he hesitates, “Mamae said you’d be leaving. You have to leave.”

A chill sweeps over you, the hair on the back on your neck standing on end. You draw your eyes back over to the stage the Revered Mother presided over, searching out the silhouette of your mother.

She had made her way forward, to the base, and was discussing something with one of the Templar guards. Even with your elven ears, you can’t hear the conversation over the din of the bustling plaza.

They both glance over at the same time Salim speaks again, “She said that you didn’t belong here… that the Templars were going to take you away.”

You freeze, thoughts racing and air chilling, sending goosebumps up and down your arms.

The Templar and your body’s mother begin to make their way over.

You can’t _think_ , oh gods, they _know_.

The Templar draws closer, armor glittering under the morning sun, eyes searing into you from behind the dark slit in their stark, impersonal helmet. The Blade of Mercy emblazed on their cuirass seemed to condemn you further. You are going to _die_ ; they are going to _kill you_ , and you won’t even know the face of your murderer – no, _executioner_.

You wonder what had given you away.

You are still blue-screening, steadily growing colder the closer the Templar strolls forward, leisurely, with their palm still on the hilt of their blade.

“Salim, get away from it,” she commands. Salim shakes next to you, shivering. Still, he doesn’t move away.

“Salim, _come here_ ,” she repeats, more forcefully this time. “Get away from it, and let the Templar do his job.”

Salim stands, haltingly, and inches solemnly toward her with crunching steps in the abnormal silence of the courtyard. When he stands in front of her, she hugs him to her side, shielding him from your view, but you can’t look away from his wide, tearfully dark eyes.

“Well, Demon, what do you have to say for yourself, hmm?” The Templar questioned dispassionately.

You draw in breath after breath, but you aren’t getting any air, _why aren’t you getting any air? Oh God, this is it, this is how you die…!_

When you don’t respond he huffs, and turns to Salim’s mother once more, “Well, it’s not reacting like they usually do; so, either this one’s a better actor than normal, or she’s not possessed in the first place.” He glances back over his shoulder at you, “Definitely a mage though, if the ice says anything.”

His words bring you back to the present with a sharp jolt. You jerk your head down and are shocked to find that the chill you’ve been experiencing wasn’t only from the mind-numbing and paralyzing terror – the ground around you is haloed with a thin layer of frost; even your dress wasn’t spared, crinkling with movement and letting off small flurries of snowflakes.

Although the magic can’t be hidden, you are both relieved and baffled at his conclusion. They don’t know you are a spirit? A parasite walking around in a stolen body, living on borrowed time?

If they don’t know you are an abomination – and don’t they have some way to check for possession? Something better than provoking a possible demon and waiting for a reaction? If they don’t, as you fear might be so, then you shudder to think how many hapless mages have been slaughtered without due process or for reacting volatilely – then what had tipped them off? What had caused your own mother to sell you out – her own flesh and blood, raised by her hands, weaned off her milk? A mere hunch? Or something more tangible, something that had slipped your careful notice?

You bite down a bitter laugh. That woman loves to play you for a fool, didn’t she?

As you slowly regain awareness of your less immediate surroundings, you notice that the other denizens of the Alienage have formed an audience to your spectacle. You search their faces, but find only varying traces of disgust, pity, or dismissal. For many, circle life is an improvement compared to the Alienage.

You turn your attention back to the immediate danger: the Templar. In your distraction, he had meandered closer to you, now towering over your small, shivering form.

“Well, stand up, rabbit. We’re taking you to the Chantry, where you can wait to be taken to the Tower – with the rest of the robe-types.”

You don’t think the man in the skirt has any place to talk.

“What? That is no _mage_! It is an _abomination! Slay it!_ ” She shrieks, outraged.

“Settle down, knife-ear. If you cannot prove she’s an abomination, she still has to be taken to the Tower. After that, if she turns, it’ll be their problem.” The threat in his voice cows her, and she backs down.

You stand up on your own, having little choice but to follow the Templar and not wanting to be man-handled along the way. As you pass her, you look up at the woman meant to be your mother, once more beholding the fear in her eyes, and the way she draws back at your searching gaze, pushing Salim behind her as if to shield him from you. You look away, not wanting to acknowledge her any longer, and unable to bear searching out your brother’s eyes, sure to be wet with tears.

You wonder after your father, who is still working the docks. What will she tell him, when he comes home to find his daughter gone – taken, without a word of goodbye?

You wonder if you’ll ever see him again – any of them. Probably not.

You follow after the Revered Mother’s procession calmly and diligently, with all the dignity you could manage, dwarfed on all fronts by the towering, gleaming Templars as you are.

When you finally reach the Chantry itself, they lead you through a corridor, down some stairs, and into a small side room – likely a dungeon – filled with hay and a pair of manacles carved with glowing blue runes. Lyrium. Likely for mana suppression. You let them bind your wrists without putting up a fight. At this point, resistance is futile. You would not make it if you tried to fight against a contingent of fully trained Templars, and if you did, what then? On the run as a child, in a strange world you only know from memories of the Fade? Would you join the Dalish? Fight for the chance to be the Keeper’s First? Their second? Risk it with the Chasind, or the Avvar, who are known to allow possession within their tribes? You doubt you could get all the way to the Kocari Wilds, or to the Frostback Mountains. And if you can’t manage _that_ far, there is no chance of you traveling all the way to Nevarra, or Rivain, with their policy of leniency within Circles.

Tevinter isn’t an option; not with all the slavery, blood magic, and political intrigue. Some mages _dream_ of becoming a Magister – you know the reality that awaited those foolish enough to dare. Rivian isn’t that much safer, really, what with the Qunari activity in the area. Followers of the Qun are _not_ big on mages, especially not _apostate_ mages harboring an _abomination_.

And anyone who finds out this isn’t your body – aside from the Avvar, at least? They would sooner kill you than permit you breath in their presence. Such is the fate of an abomination.

You stare out at nothing as the two Templars take their leave, leaving you in the cold, dark cell, with only one flickering candle for light. You anticipate it will be a long night…

There are no windows, so you have no method of measuring the length of time you are locked within the Chantry’s dungeon, except by the irregular replacement of the candle, changing of the chamber pot, and bringing of the meals by a kind Chantry Brother.

He sits with you in between his visits, telling you stories about his daily duties as a Brother, interactions with other Initiates, and this one Lay Sister that he fancies. You don’t contribute much, but he seems happy just to fill the silence until he has to leave.

You suppose you make a rather pitiful sight like this; a scrawny, haggard child, gaunt with poverty, shivering in the cold, left alone in a dark cell and chained to a wall by shackles that further dwarf her. Even if it is pity, it is better than being feared and hated for being a mage or an abomination. His visits are one of the only bright parts of your day.

At least the cell itself isn’t damp; and the hay is softer than the cold stone, if itchier.

Your sad routine is finally ended when two Templars, identical in their uniformity to the ones from before, come into your cell and unceremoniously unshackle you.

“Hello,” soothes the one who’d drawn the key, “I’m sure you’re very scared right now, but I need you to be a brave girl, alright? We’re here to take you to the Circle, where you’ll meet lots of other mages, and make some new friends, okay?”

You rub your tender wrists, watching him warily. He sounds young, and friendly, but that doesn’t mean he is trustworthy.

“Lay off it, Irminric. Just bind the knife-ear, so it can’t cast, and let’s get a move on.” That one _definitely_ isn’t friendly – and is apparently a female. They all look the same in that armor.

“Oh, come one, Rylock,” he entreats, “She’s just a child; barely left the safety of her mother’s apron strings. What’s the harm in being gentle?”

“Irminric, either you will bind its hands, or _I_ will,” she threatens.

The one she called Irminric sighs, and begins replacing the former manacles with his own, “Sorry about this, Rylock can be a bit overwhelming, but she’s just afraid you’ll try to run away, and hurt yourself.” The ‘or someone else’ is left unspoken.

You remain silent and complacent as they lead you out of the Chantry, through the Denerim market plaza – ignoring the sidelong glances and blatant stares of passersby – and passed the gates out of the city.

It is your first time outside the walls of Denerim, and you savor your ability to take in the sights around you without them constantly shifting like in the Fade. However long you had been in the Chantry, it was enough time for snow to cover the ground in huge drifts, and frost to creep up the trees.

Rylock kept a harsh pace as the lead, rarely allowing stops for rest along the road or at village inns, while Irminric kept the rearguard and chattered nonstop to keep the silence at bay.

He covers a broad range of topics: why he joined the Templar Order – to allow his sister to become Bann; why there weren’t more Templars in their entourage – smaller groups travelled faster and lighter, and a heavier guard force was saved for more volatile escorts, such as apostates, maleficar, and violent or habitual escapees; and how Kinloch Hold was originally built by the Avvar in collaboration with the dwarves, before it was seized by the Tevinter Imperium in a brutal campaign, and then fell into the hands of the Alamarri tribes led by Andraste during the First Exalted March against the Tevinter Imperium, becoming known as the Circle Tower after the one in Denerim burned down in 3:87 Towers.

Some of the things he jabbers on about are interesting, such as the historical rants, but most of the time he goes off on a tangent about an event from his personal life, such as the time he was dared to eat a rat by one of the other recruits, his first experience taking lyrium, and the time he laughed so hard he fell off his horse.

Currently, he is narrating about a time when he was playing hide and seek with his sister, and he was so determined to win that he hid in the horse pens, and didn’t come out until the servants sent out a search party in his absence.

“—so, while all of the servants were crying in relief that I hadn’t been kidnapped, Alfstanna had her arms thrown around me in a hug, also crying tears of joy, and mother was absolutely livid. She started screeching about how I caused everyone unnecessary worry, and that I was grounded for a month for causing such a scene, and when Father heard about this, I was getting the switch for sure—"

If nothing else, he definitely has a flair for dramatic storytelling.

After many days and nights of travel, you are finally approaching Lake Calenhad and its docks. Far across the lake, you can see the Tower jutting ominously from the horizon.

Irminric makes all of you stop by the Spoiled Princess Inn – apparently named after the Innkeeper’s daughter, who quite lives up to her namesake during your short acquaintance – in order to get a drink and catch up with the locals before finding the ferryman.

Rylock is _not_ pleased with his decision.

“Irminric, you are wasting time. If you insist on lollygagging about in a _tavern_ of all places, _you_ can explain to Knight-Commander Greagoir why you think getting drunk is a higher priority than completing your duties as a Templar. I’m sure he’d be happy to listen, and assign you some time to _reflect_ on your obligations to the Maker,” she tells him scathingly.

“And I think _you_ would do to live a little, and ask the Maker to remove the _stick_ you’ve shoved up your ass,” he slurs.

“Why I—! That’s it, get a move on!” You can practically see smoke coming out of her ears, accompanied by the whistling of a boiling teapot. She stomps over and grabs a hold of the back of Irminric’s armor, then fists her gauntlet in your hair, dragging you away from where Innkeeper’s daughter had been prattling away at you for the last half hour.

You screech, and thrash about in her iron grip as she drags you by the hair, out the door, and to the dock. As she reaches it, she throws you down and leaves you to struggle to pull yourself to your feet with your hands still bound. As you rise with a stinging scalp and tears burning your eyes, you glare at her with hatred.

You would remember her name and face. First chance you have; you’ll make her life a _living hell_.

“Kester, take us across, _now!_ ” She shouts imperiously.

“R-right away ma’am!” The ferryman, Kester, quailed under her temper.

We all load into the boat, even though it is a tight squeeze and the boat threatens to capsize. You stick close to Irminric as he sings some sailing song – badly – even more wary about being close to Rylock now that she is at her wit’s end and turning violent. Kester battles against the giant ice flows, pushing them away when they collide with the boat or paddling furiously in the other direction. The chilly spray bites at your face with the churning waves, and you shiver, drawing the fur shawl that Irminric had given you shortly after you left Denerim tighter around your small frame.

As you cross the icy water, your eyes are drawn to the ruined bridge that arched high above your heads, having crumbled into the lake centuries ago, possibly during one of the battles for Kinloch, either between the Avvar and the Imperium, or the ‘Vint’s and the Alamarri. It matched the ancient architecture of the Imperial Highway, which your entourage had sometimes travelled either along or beside on the way to the Circle Tower.

Some might wonder why the Mages and Templars never repaired it; you knew it was to further isolate the mages from society, and prevent escapes or unauthorized visits.

The tense ride finally ends when the boat docks in the caverns under the tower, mooring itself to one of the posts sticking out of the solid rock floor. As you step onto cool, algae spotted stone, you look back at the far shore in a moment of mourning. Your feet wouldn’t touch that soil for years, possibly your entire life.

The reddish orange blaze of the setting sun cast a golden shine on the ice and water, making the whole lake shimmer in the dying light.

A similar orange glow reflects off the dampened walls of the cave, slick with moisture and capturing the dim gleam of overhead lanterns that sung and sparked with magic. Scattered around are moldy crates, dusty wheelbarrows, fraying rope, and barnacle encrusted nets. Stalactites reach down to meet stalagmites, dripping with humidity and causing rhythmic ripples in the water surface. The entire cove feels cold, clammy, and smells of fetid oil and mildew. It is nothing close to the squalor of the Alienage, but it gives off a foreboding feeling nonetheless.

As you follow your Templar captors up a wide, curving stairwell wreathed in shadow, you spot a large dumbwaiter hidden behind a warped, grey wooden gate.

Your procession comes to a pause in front of a set of large, heavy doors inscribed with the heraldry of the Circle of Magi. Rylock knocks three times, each accompanied by a set of booming echoes. The doors slowly swing inward, revealing a hall carved out of marble and stone, decorated with austere statues depicting the likes of various warriors of renown, and even more depicting Andraste or her followers carrying a bowl of flames in their palms. It gives the interior a rather dim, shadowy ambiance, especially with the golden glow of the setting sun slipping through the narrow windows.

They lead you farther up the tower, circling through the halls and up various sets of staircases; wide, grand ones sitting at the very center, and narrow, obscure ones closer to the outer wall. You pass dormitories, practice rooms, alchemy labs, lecture halls, a small Chantry, and so, _so_ many libraries. It has to have been at least fifty percent libraries and twenty percent dorms.

The halls are crowded, and you meet the eye of numerous mages and Templars.

Finally, the spiraling ends, and they come to a stop in front of a grand door at the end of a long hall. It is twice as tall as you are, and shaped out of dark ebony wood with an ornate brass handle. A door this fancy _has_ to hold something important.

Your intuition is proven correct when the door swings open to reveal an imposing office full of books, papers and miscellaneous bobbles stacked halfway to the towering ceiling. Two tall, stained-glass windows refract the dying light around the room, giving it a mystical, mysterious feeling.

Sitting at the desk is a man, probably late thirties to early forties, wearing a more extravagant set of black robes than any you’ve seen so far. He looks up and smiles at you from behind gold-rimmed, half-moon spectacles, eyes twinkling. His beard, greying hair, and general countenance brings to mind a man named Dumbledore, also wearing very eye-catching robes. You wonder if you can get a set that’s tie-dyed, or bright magenta. Cyan? What’s the dress code? Is there one?

“Ah, this must be our newest arrival, then. And what is your name, dear child?” He speaks in a rasping voice, but with kind undertones.

You don’t trust it. The resemblance to a wizard named Dumbledore is just growing stronger.

“Anuriel Surana,” you reply. He seems important, is probably in charge. It’s in your best interest to get on his good side.

“Very good, child. And where are you from, my dear?”

“We picked her up from the Denerim Chantry, First Enchanter. Probably from the Alienage,” Irminric answers before you can. The First Enchanter’s eyes focus on the two Templars behind you.

“Ah, yes, most of the elves in the Circle come from there, no?” He asks rhetorically, “Templar Rylock, would you bring the Knight-Commander here? Knight-Corporal, do remove the restraints on the poor dear?”

Rylock nods and turns to exit, while Irminric pulls out a key and undoes your shackles. The three of you are left in silence until the First Enchanter breaks it.

“Now, child, I understand this can be a hard thing for young minds to comprehend, but you are now part of something bigger than yourself. You are to be an apprentice of the Circle of Magi, and there are certain obligations you are responsible to uphold.

“Andraste once said, ‘Magic is to serve man, and never to rule over him’. This is why the Circle exists, to protect mages from the outside world, and give them a place where they are safe to study freely. Your magic is both a blessing, and a curse, and you must learn to control it, so that you do not bring harm to others.”

A man in a different set of armor, still clearly Templar, but more ornate, enters.

“This is the new apprentice?” The question is directed at the First Enchanter but his eyes linger on you.

“Yes, Greagoir, I was just explaining to her what responsibilities she will carry within the Circle. Are the Tranquil finished preparing her room?”

“Yes, Irving, I just finished overseeing it,” he replies, “Another will be up soon to deliver her robes.”

“Ah, that is good. I will finish up quickly then,” his attention turns back to you, “As I was saying, you will live in the Apprentice Dormitories, on the first floor, with your fellow brothers and sisters. Listen to the Enchanters, do not wander after curfew, and don’t bully your dormmates. I hope that in your time here, you will grow to see the Circle as your new family.”

As he is wrapping up, a woman wearing grey robes walks in, carrying a folded set of blue robes, a glass philter, and a knife. Her head was shaved, prominently displaying the red, raised scar on her forehead, shaped like the sunburst the Chantry uses. She walks over to Greagoir, who takes the philter and the knife, then stands to the sidelines.

Greagoir comes closer, bearing the knife. You don’t like where this is going.

“All apprentices, upon entering the tower, must have a phylactery made. This is so no one gets any bright ideas about trying to run away – not that you’d get very far,” he snarks, “Just hold still, it only takes a few drops.” He directs you to lift your hand, placing the philter beneath it and running the blade over the tip of your forefinger. Blood wells up from the cut and drips down into the glass.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Once he deems he’s collected enough, he pulls away and stoppers it. Irving comes around the desk and hovers his hands over the blood-filled vial. It churns and glows brightly, reacting to your proximity, most likely. Finished casting the spell to bind you to your phylactery, he comes closer, and places his hands over your small one, enveloping it completely. His hands take on a warm golden glow, suffusing you with heat. It feels like… basking lazily in the afternoon sun; sitting by the fire with a cup of hot chocolate and marshmallows; eating fresh biscuits or popcorn with melted butter. You have never felt so… so… _safe,_ and _warm_ , and _loved_. It is all encompassing.

You never want it to end.

Far too soon, it is over – what felt like hours actually only lasting a few seconds. You stare at your hand in awe, pouring over where the thin cut on your finger once was. There isn’t even a scar. It was your first experience with healing magic – for who would waste something so _valuable_ on an _elf_? Never mind that normally the Chantry provided the service freely for everyone else, though most were unwilling to chance healing from a mage due to a distrust of magic. Occasionally a noble would pay for a spirit healer, but that was more so a case of time and skill than anything.

Irving chuckles at your stunned expression, eyes warm. “You appear fascinated with restoration magic. The school of Creation is a particularly challenging one, requiring much mental discipline. You will have to study hard if you wish to master it.” He gestured towards the Tranquil and she stepped forward, handing you your robes. “She will show you to your new bedchambers. Irminric, if you would escort them?”

With that, you are dismissed, following the Tranquil and followed in turn by the Templar. You make your way back down to the first level. The “floors” of the Tower are actually several conjoined levels sharing a common purpose, like how the First Floor has the Apprentice dorms and most of the libraries, while the Second houses the Chantry, yet more libraries, and the Mages and Enchanters quarters.

You stop in a hallway sporting a series of plain wooden doors. The Tranquil pushes open the one second from the right, and waits for you to enter. You walk in, still holding your robes, and are greeted by a chorus of curious eyes. The room is filled with children largely among your age group, with a few older or younger outliers. There is no apparent separation of humans from elves, or boys from girls. The second would seem like an oversight, but they are yet young, and wouldn’t get away with much with everyone else in the room.

The door closes behind you, sealing your fate.

At least three dozen faces stare back at you. Several children jump at the chance to welcome a new arrival, bombarding you with questions, introductions, and other useless, trivial facts. Your ears twitch back, trying to shut out the noise. The oldest in the room – a human boy with blonde hair pulled into a ponytail and a beak-like nose – quiets them.

“The changing screen is over there,” he gestures towards the left of the room, where a stone wall that bisects the room resides, “along with the tubs and toiletries. The Tranquil bring water for baths and change the chamber pots every Monday and Thursday; meals are held at 7am, 12pm, and 5pm in the cafeteria on the Third Floor; and lights out are at 8pm for apprentices. The day begins with breakfast, and you’ll be hard pressed to sleep in with all these rascals making a racket to wake the dead.” His snide remark draws snickers from the older children and whining complaints from the younger ones.

“You can take any of the empty beds to the right of the room; someone will correct you if you take theirs. Beds on the left are for us older kids – you get split into different dorms as you get older, so the bed arrangement changes every year, and seniority rules,” he continues. You can see why the beds on the left are more desirable – everyone would be rushing to be first to the wash area every morning, and the closer you were the better chance you’d have to get a good spot in the queue that would likely form.

You nod to show you understand then head over to change into your robes. They are light, and surprisingly comfortable; a combination of blue and purple, with gold embellishments. They hang off of your small, thin frame awkwardly, but you know you will soon grow into them. Unlike Alienages, Circles do not lack for food or warmth – made up for no doubt by a combination of magic and enchantments weaved into the foundation of the building. With the lack of servants, menial tasks must be made up for by the Tranquil, supplying the Tower with cooking, cleaning, bookkeeping, and organizing supplies or transactions with those outside the Tower.

And yet, a gilded cage still confines its prisoner – and you know what awaits those who fail their Harrowing, or are deemed too dangerous to be controlled.

As you wander back over to the beds, choosing one close to the back wall, the boy addresses you again. He seems to hold nominal authority over the apprentices.

“You should put your clothes in the trunk if you want to keep them, otherwise the Tranquil will take them away. After breakfast, one of the Enchanters will select you and bring you to the room your lessons will take place in. After the first day, you will be expected to find your own way there, but another mage or a Tranquil will point the way if asked for direction. Don’t try asking one of the Templars, they don’t appreciate us wasting time they could be using for glowering at us, or standing around ominously. Pompous lot,” he scoffs. Another chorus of giggles follow his words, chased by frantic shushing. The walls have ears after all – and swords.

You place your clothes within the trunk at the foot of your new bed, as suggested. You are not yet ready to let go of the only reminder of your life before the Circle. You have already forgotten too much as is.

You pull the covers over your head, to block out the light and noise of the rest of the children. No matter where your body may lie, the Fade holds comfort for you, as well as friends to share your sorrows with, like Iphigenia. You have known her for longer than you remember, and she is close to your heart.

You slip away quickly and quietly, long ago having mastered the transition from waking to dreaming. You converse with Iphigenia on your plight, then seek new sights to take your mind from it. You spend the rest of the night dancing with Joy and bantering with Defiance.

When you wake, a new chapter of your life awaits you. Whether it be merry or melancholy will only be revealed with time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested, such as AnosDT95, I will be posting a snippet from her mother's POV in my connected fic Lost in Dreams Snippets (the name is self-explanatory).


	4. Magic is Meant to Serve Man, and Never to Rule over Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into life in Kinloch Hold, and the introduction of two key players.

The strangest thing about living in the Tower is, decidedly, the singing.

Templars, mages, magic, lyrium; all day and night the Tower sings, melodies worked into the very stone, worn into it by time and repetition.

The lyrium sings to you from the storage room, and hums within the veins of both Templars and mages – the former more than the latter. Every spell cast calls upon the Fade, drawing bits of it across the gossamer threads of the Veil to whisper in your ear like a soft breath.

All magic has a song, each spell singing a slightly different tune. It is a keen vibration – a resonant chord, a discordant note – a distortion that reverberates throughout the Fade as an echo.

It is not a song that is heard so much as felt, deep within your ethereal being, like the thrum of bass within your chest. A chord is struck, and you would feel every vibration of the string until it fell into silence.

It is no wonder mages drew so much attention from the other side; it is near impossible to ignore.

What _i_ _s_ much easier to ignore is the inane chattering of the other apprentices.

“Hey, Anuriel, do you have the answer to question five? I just need a peak, promise.”

Easier, but not eternally sustainable.

You pass the sheet over to Jowan and he quickly gets to work copying your answers.

“Thanks, Nuri. It’s just so hard to find the right sources for citation, I don’t know how you do it,” he complains as he passes it back.

Your eye twitches. He got ink on your page.

You hold your hand over it, drawing upon your mana to suffuse the ink with it, and flick it off the page.

One of the Templars twitches violently at your casual display of arcane mastery.

Mages are not encouraged to use magic for mundane purposes within the Tower.

No, instead, when one is brought to the Tower, they are first taught reading and writing, so as to better absorb their later lessons.

After everyone achieves literacy, apprentices attend lectures on the nature of magic, how to control it, their rightful place in the world, and _how thankful they should be to the Templars for protecting them from the outside world_.

Bleugh, it makes you want to _gag_.

So, what if the common man fears mages? Much of that fear is based on prejudice and misinformation – fear mongering spread by the Chantry itself in order to maintain control over the general populace.

Everyone loves to point to the Chant of Light – _“magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him”_ – as the be-all end-all stance on magic and mages within society. The occasional discovery of maleficar and abominations are blown epically out of proportion and used as evidence to keep mages locked up because they’re _dangerous_.

Of course, mages are dangerous, they can conjure fire with their _mind_. But who teaches them how to do so effectively? Who teaches them about formations, and battle tactics, and enemy movements?

Mages are taught to cast destruction and violence because the Chantry sees them as _war machines_ and would never willingly give up such a valuable resource – so long as it bends to their will.

For all of magic’s inherent dangers, the Chantry and Templars are hypocrites for teaching us war and then decrying us for being capable of violence.

Not to say that they want us _too_ competent; after all, it wouldn’t do for mages to rise up against their Templar oppressors and actually _win_ , would it?

It is for that same reason that each and every mage that enters these hallowed halls is handicapped in the most subtle, insidiously mundane way.

The Tranquil wash our clothes, clean our rooms, prepare our food, draw our bathes, perform transactions with the wider world, etcetera…

Mages are treated like children; kept dependent by malicious design. If a mage escapes, how would they manage to survive in the outside world when they are ignorant of how to care for themselves?

“’Nuriel, class is over, and you don’t want to miss lunch again, do you?” Jowan once again displaces you from your thoughts.

You let loose a sigh as you quietly return all of your material to their shelves and drawers, silently following him out of the class like a curious wisp.

You doubt anyone would have placed the two of you to be friends; you made a rather unlikely pair.

The stoic, dour, and eerily talented prodigy that unnerved everyone around her – and the rather lackluster and jittery, but surprisingly optimistic and friendly, Jowan.

He also whined, like, a lot.

If, when you first arrived, someone had told you that you would wind up spending most of your time with him of you own free will, you would have leveled them with a sardonically skeptical stare until their confidence deserted them and they retreated from your presence.

Jowan, however, was nothing but persistent, and when you gave him that same look after he declared his desire to be friends with you – because you arrived at around the same time, were in the same classes, and looked close in age – he just fidgeted self-consciously but remained studiously attached to your side.

If only he put that same dedication towards his studies.

You had only truly warmed up to him after he bothered to keep track of your food intake – often bringing you scraps he had saved from his own plate when you skipped the prescribed meals in favor of more research – and started scavenging spare papers for you to draw or write stories on.

For all that the Tower serves as a place of study, they are incredibly stingy with their supplies. You are still trying to work out a way to bribe the Tranquil; it is slow going.

Your corner of the cafeteria table is loud – or as loud as it gets when everyone is viscerally aware of the Templars watching your every move, hearing your every word – but few dare attempt to actually draw you into conversation.

Your aura of unapproachability is likely due to a multitude of factors; not the least being your proclivity towards a resting bitch face and propensity for anti-social behavior.

Unlike the Tranquil, you do not feel the need to display a placid smile for the comfort of others. When not feeling any particularly strong emotion – which was most of the time – your facial expression geared towards either condescending boredom or contemptuous irritation.

This did not stop the other mages from comparing you to the Tranquil and finding you equally unsettling.

It does not help that your voice always sounds vaguely derisive.

You have gotten into trouble numerous times for perceived disrespect and insubordination. For all your prodigious talent in spell work (attributed to your nature as a spirit and familiarity with the Fade) and excellent work ethic (which did not help in comparisons with the Tranquil), very few instructors behold you with a favorable eye; the ones that do often possess similarities that likewise set them apart from their peers.

Your general countenance, as observed by your fellow apprentices, is that of an arrogant, unsociable prodigy. Most avoid you, consciously or not, leaving you in semi-self-imposed isolation. Those few who do interact with you are either resentful and combative, meekly sycophantic, or completely unbothered by the arts of socialization, much like you.

In the eyes of the Tower’s upper echelons, however, you are likely perceived as a highly volatile wildcard; one which requires a keen eye and careful restraint in order to benefit the Circle rather than act against its best interests.

Truly, the tentative friendship between you and Jowan persists only because you are the only ones willing to put up with each other.

Or, at least, you believed you were. A year or so after your induction into Kinloch, you spy the Templars dragging in another captive – this one much less docile than you had been.

He kicks and screams, straining against their unrelenting hold, stopping just short of foaming at the mouth.

His black hair is a tangled mess – it is impossible to tell if it is supposed to be that color or if it is as caked in mud as the rest of him. Despite the grime on his face, you can spot a fresh, purpling bruise splitting his lower lip – likely from one of the Templar’s gauntlets – and he holds a wild look in his eyes; like a caged animal, ready to pounce and bolt the moment the latch gives way.

They drag him not up the stairs to Irving’s office, but instead down towards the basement – and the dungeons within. Obviously, he’s put up enough of a fight to be considered a nuisance in need of taming.

In a week or so they’ll be dragging him back out in order to create his phylactery and he’ll be thrown into a dormitory instead.

As luck would have it, a week later, that same dormitory proves to be the one you shared with Jowan.

The other apprentices were all in a flutter; word had spread of his capture. Rumors spread fast in the Circle Tower, where many are left idle and zealously eager for the next juicy tidbit.

Who slept with who and what so-and-so said to what’s-his-face were all common knowledge by the time noon rolls around.

The next couple months are punctuated with non-stop crying from his corner of the dorm.

Jowan, being the nosily persistent little busybody he is, decides Crying-Boy is the perfect candidate for friendship.

He runs up to him, loudly proclaiming his name – completely undeterred when Crying-Boy only gave him a sullen glare – and dragging you along with him, as he is wont to do.

You’ve lost count of the amount of times Jowan has gotten into trouble and dragged your name through the mud as well, merely because you were almost always together.

Similarly to how he coerced you into becoming something beyond amiable acquaintances, his jovial tenacity eventually wears down Crying-Boy’s defenses as well.

“My name is Hadrian, _stop_ calling me Crying-Boy!” he whisper-shouts at you during class.

“Three months. _Three_. _Months_. Of _non-stop_ _crying_ ,” you hiss back, eyeing the instructor’s back, “your late-night sob-fests kept me up for _hours_. I love sleep. Everyone else was just too polite to say anything. I threw a sock at you, and you _still_ wouldn’t shut up.”

“That was _you!?_ ” he shrieks, earning the teacher’s ire and implicating you as well. You point at Jowan, ignoring his cry of betrayal; he was the one who insisted Crying-Boy sit with them during lessons, it was his fault you were all in this mess in the first place. Besides, he did it to you often enough; it was only fair he got a taste of his own medicine.

Crying-Boy – _“Hadrian”_ – it’s not completely malicious, you’re genuinely bad at names – isn’t _horrible_ company. He doesn’t whine as much as Jowan, and actually manages to keep up with you in class; an impressive feat when you consider the head-start you had.

You’re finally out of the theory-driven courses and onto the combat ones. You show the same amount of prowess as you had previously, followed closely by Hadrian. They’re also the classes where Jowan really begins to lag behind, despite his best efforts.

Whereas you are most mentors’ nightmare – showing brilliantly innate talent but remaining willful and obstinate; Hadrian shines as a studious and dutiful disciple. Enchanters – Junior and Senior alike – lavish him with praises, prompting fellow apprentices to look at him with both envy and awe.

Irving in particular seems to have acquired a bias in his favor; brushing off most criticism of his more outspoken and rebellious tendencies.

Despite his wild and combative youth, he grew quickly into a more charming, sociable demeanor. His popularity among your peers is also attested to by the appraising looks and girlish giggles many young mages send his way. The smug look he gains as he passes by their groups in the halls suggests that he’s taken some of them up on their more… _intimate_ offers of companionship.

Even if you may feel uncomfortable with your fellow apprentices’ proclivities, you are hardly in a position to caution against their choice of outlet and source of comfort.

A few older apprentices and worldly enchanters have made attempts to give you _The Talk_ TM and explain about common contraceptives, but you’ve ducked out of those informal lessons without any attempt at subtlety.

Should you ever possess the desire to intimately acquaint yourself with another inhabitant of the Tower, you already know enough about the process; and should your in-depth knowledge of herbs and remedies not suffice, you can use your magic to make your body a very inhospitable dwelling.

That is, if you’re even capable of conceiving, given that you are – technically – a well-preserved arcane horror. Or a revenant? You aren’t entirely sure if the prior inhabitant was a mage or if it is merely your own inherently arcane nature as a spirit shining through— wait.

… Would that make it necrophilia?

To take your mind off of the disturbing places it decided to visit, you twirl your staff and unleash a volley of lightning at one of the targets, causing it to burst into flames and for bits of it to slough off, forming a puddle of slag at its base.

Your over-powered spell draws attention, and your fellow apprentices gaze at what remains of your target with awe and apprehension in equal spades. There is a reason you are considered the most advanced in your classes, Hadrian aside.

One of the Templars overseeing the lessons tenses, and his hand hovers over the hilt of his sword. His helmeted gaze burns into you, and everyone who notices holds their breath, muscles clenching, waiting for the spark to ignite.

It passes. The charged atmosphere dissipates, and everyone lets out a silent breath of relief. Enchanter Leorah dismisses the class hastily, but only a little early.

You return your practice stave to its display as you exit the classroom. Mages are given personal staves only upon completion of the Harrowing. Many newly Harrowed mages take up the chance to tell their preferences to the Tranquil in return for a more personalized staff.

Unfortunately, this leniency is not extended to the wardrobe. It is only once one makes Senior Enchanter, a not insignificant undertaking, that one is allowed to place an order for a more unique outfit.

Out of a desire to not be caught up in and carried away by the uniform ubiquity, you have taken to styling your hair in increasingly extravagant styles – mainly intricately braided up-does – and painting your face in bold colors whenever you get your hands on some powders capable of being turned into makeup.

You have a sizable black-market based entirely around contraband goods such as beauty products, luxury items, and blank vellum. You occasionally run up along the lyrium smuggling ring in your dealings, but relations remain cordial.

The Tower is still abuzz with news of King Cailan’s coronation, and the disappearance of King Maric. Just when the rumor-mill had been dying down, His Majesty’s union with Queen Anora Mac Tir, Daughter of Teyrn Loghain, Hero of River Dane, fired it right back up again.

It was quite the auspicious match, as far as the Circle’s residents were concerned, for as little as they cared about Ferelden’s politics. As long as Orlais wasn’t leading another invasion – which was looking unlikely with the ascension of Empress Celene Valmont – most mages were content in the knowledge that it all had little to do with them.

There was a schism within the Tower, between those who hungered for word of the world beyond the cold stone walls, and those who spurned it.

What you found most odd; are the tomes the Circle was now acquiring from the University of Orlais. It had only really begun after Empress Celene’s ascension in 9:20 Dragon, and most books attributed the University’s sudden relevance to her announcement of intended attendance.

You could have sworn it had already been a prestigious institution, but all evidence points to the fact that, before Celene endorsed it, it was an obscure dumping-grounds for all of Orlais’ less promising scions.

This is only a singular phenomenon in a long list of similar incidents. You are not surprised at the disappearance of King Maric, crowning of King Cailan, or his quick marriage to Queen Anora, only possessing a disquieting sense of déjà vu.

When you think on Fereldan’s royal family, all you feel is a vague premonition of foreboding tragedy. You resolve to avoid thinking on them henceforth.

When you meet up with Jowan and Hadrian for dinner, you feel the eyes of the Templars and senior mages more keenly than ever. You beat a hasty retreat from the cafeteria, back towards the dorms.

The air carries an electric charge, like a rip in the Veil allowing Fade energies to spill through, and your hair stands on end.

You may not see into the minds of mortals as clearly as your more attuned brethren, but you are not blind to the currents of invisible energy that flow amid the Waking realm.

You settle for bed, and lay quietly as your mind slips beyond the Veil.

The Fade is barren and desolate, ravaged by some unseen entity, reflecting your current thoughts. Even the comfort of your home does not quell you, and your trepidation persists; a sense of dread hanging over you like the Sword of Damocles, ever poised to strike.

The last time you had felt like this…

Her name was Sadia, a fellow apprentice.

You had always been aware there was a dark side to the Tower, but it was only through her that you had truly _known_.

The terror every mage feels, buried within themselves. The helplessness – the horror of a nightmare become reality.

Mages are always watched, but his gaze on her was different. Possessive, lustful.

He dominated the shifts that would allow him closer to her, even as she shied from his attention.

It was the only time you had purposefully reached out to another inhabitant of the Tower, in an attempt to guard her, shield her.

It wasn’t enough.

One night she came back with bruises on her wrists and neck. She didn’t speak to anyone; just got prepared and went to bed with the rest of you, but the dried tear tracks and hollow gaze said enough.

Attempts to report him failed, only landing you in hot water. She refused to testify, but you refused to blame her for it.

In the days afterward, she was more withdrawn, not speaking up in classes or in the little free-time apprentices were afforded. One day, the sleeve of her robe got caught. Under the raised fabric, you caught sight of thin red scars bisecting the length of her inner-forearm, before she shoved it back down and hurried away. She wasn’t the sort to resort to blood magic, not when there were other explanations, but that didn’t mean anything to the Templars.

A week later, she was simply gone from the dorm room, no notice. You saw her later, head shaved and with the sunburst brand burned into her forehead. If that didn’t fill you in, the blank eyes, placid smile, and grey robes would have.

You don’t know if it was her choice or if it was forced upon her. You never worked up the courage to ask.

Tranquility wouldn’t stop him – didn’t. Tranquil don’t possess the desire to say no, not when its so much simpler to just acquiesce, and comply with the Chantry’s, Templars’, or Circle’s demands.

It just made it easier for him to get away with it. Tranquility is similar to being drunk, or high; it renders you incapable of giving informed consent. Consent gained through coercion or inability to say no is not freely given.

The official channels were stonewalling you, so you took matters into your own hands.

You couldn’t kill him, or even attack him – doing so would be a sure-fire way to reach the same fate, or worse. You weren’t even sure if the Rite of Tranquility would have an affect on you, but you weren’t eager to find out. And it would be so inconvenient to have to find a new body when you’d already been wearing this one for years – nearly two full decades.

You stalked his sleeping mind in the Fade, bombarding him with horrific visions that left him jittery and sleep-deprived. Night after night, you tore into his psyche, using his worst fears against him, drawing other demons into his dreams to continue his torment. He became paranoid; jumping at shadows and unable to rid himself of the tremor in his hands.

Eventually, his deteriorated mental-state became too much for his superiors to ignore, and he was relieved from duty.

They put it down as madness induced by lyrium – though there were whispers of blood magic. In absence of evidence proclaiming the use of forbidden magic, the whispers died out.

At least, until the next Templar who overstepped his bounds came to your notice.

Slowly, the number of lyrium-crazed retirements crept up, and though searches were conducted, nothing proved conclusive. Whispers began instead of a demon stalking the minds of Templars, possibly summoned by a spiteful mage – or the vengeful ghost of one, driving them to insanity.

They aren’t completely wrong.

Wait. Something is happening—!

You are torn from the Fade, waking to the sight of your bed surrounded by Templars. A chill sweeps over you, and your pulse races.

_Shit_. Do they know? Have they found out that _you’re_ the demon stalking their dreams – the abomination in their midst?

It is a mostly quiet affair as they drag you from your bed and up, up, _up_ the flights of stairs, into the pinnacle of the Tower.

The Harrowing Chamber.

You would have breathed a sigh of relief if you were not still overwhelmed with a sense of dread. Would the ritual work on you? Would they still strike you down, as soon as you entered the Fade and were rendered defenseless?

You know you had rankled a few feathers during your time in the Circle. Perhaps this was why you are to undergo the Harrowing so early. Better to be deemed an asset as soon as possible, or else be rid of you entirely.

You enter the chamber under your own power, to be greeted by the faces of the Senior Enchanters, First Enchanter Irving, Knight-Commander Greagoir, and his contingent of Templar guards.

Most are impassive. A few sneer at you with distaste, while fewer still look at you with pity. You are younger than most who undertake this trial by fire, and they do not have high hopes for your survival.

Greagoir explains the Harrowing— _“Magic is meant to serve man, and never to rule over him—”_ with little input from Irving— _“Keep your wits about you, and take nothing at face value—”_

Yes, yes, you know; trust nothing, not even yourself.

They are the ones who should not be taking _you_ at face value.

You step forward when prompted, into the circle formed by the Senior Enchanters. The lyrium pedestal stands in front of you, and Irving leads the ritual, passing the vapors from one Enchanter to the next.

As the vapors swirled around you, gradually getting closer to closing the arcane circle and sending your mind into the Fade, the music so intrinsic to the Tower intensified. You taste iron and smell ozone – the aura before a lightning strike.

The Fade has always tasted ionized to you.

Right as you feel that the music can’t get any louder, the droning drowning out all else, and that you will vibrate right out of existence, thrown from the mortal coil, vacating your body and returning to the twisting paths of the Fade – it is like you _are_ the music – the circle closes and all is dark, and still, and silent.

Between one blink and the next, you are somewhere new; the Fade.

It churns around you, an eerily silent landscape after the ordeal you had just transcended.

You still taste iron, and feel the tingle of electricity on your skin.

To your mild surprise, you are still in the shape of your elven form; much more solid than the wispy wraith you usually appear as when not channeling focus and energy into maintaining a fleshier disguise.

Perhaps it is because of the sudden and unsubtle transition from Waking to Dreaming. You are confident that you can still manipulate your ether into any shape you please.

You reach out to the Fade in an effort to get a sense of your current surroundings. Even to those who have long walked its winding paths, the geography can be rather convoluted and confusing. Scenes shift, and doorways are thresholds to anywhere.

If whomever the mages have summoned assumes that you will be easy prey, they are sorely mistaken.

You have navigated countless Harrowings during your stay in the Tower, and long before that. For all that the Templars feared you, trembling in the night at the though of catching the ire of “The Mages’ Wrath” as they had taken to calling you, many a Harrowed mage delighted at coming across you in their darkest hour.

You were a stalwart defender on their journey; a guide; a guardian.

In the beginning, many were afraid of you, distrustful of your proclaimed good-will – some even outright attacked you, thinking you a demon meant to trick them. You still sought to help them, but at a distance.

However, over time, word spread among the ones who passed of a commonly-encountered benevolent spirit, who aided them when they needed it most.

More and more young apprentices sought you out within the Fade, and your assistance proved substantial in bolstering the number of newly Harrowed mages.

It amuses you, sometimes, to have two such disparate reputations within a single Tower.

The “Mages’ Wrath” and the “Guardian of the Harrowing”.

It makes you wonder what’s next, the “Ghost of Future Past”?

Ah, your pinging finally got a response. A dark, malevolent presence hovered near the edge of the realm crafted by the Harrowing. Once you slay it, this area of the Fade will disintegrate, and you will have successfully passed your Harrowing.

You should make way quickly. You are unsure of the time restraints, but memories surface of those claiming that taking too long grants you a swift end on an impatient Templar’s blade.

The conjured area lacks continuity – its hastily constructed nature is apparent in its fractured, cobbled together furnishings. Most places reflect the raw Fade, glitching into other scenes ripped from a dreaming mind, somewhere.

Wisps and wraiths float around peculiar and ominous statues, bobbing underneath bizarre floral structures that do not resemble any you have found in the Waking. Books, desks, chairs, and lanterns float in suspended animation, waiting to fall away into oblivion once more.

They veer away from you as you pass, cowed by your presence, and the power you hold around you like a cloak. Whatever sort of spirit you are, it is not one to be trifled with. You have gone up against Pride and Desire – the two demons mortals fear as the most powerful – and come out with scant wounds to show for it.

Although the Harrowing is meant to summon a singular demon for apprentices to face, many other spirits – benevolent or malevolent – get caught up in its call, trapped within when the gates slam shut. Numerous times you have seen spirits twisted into demons upon contact with mortals’ pervasive fear.

It is near the middle of your rambling wanderings to the edge of the dream, where the arena awaits, that you meet one such spirit caught in the Circle’s fumbling machinations.

“Blast and confound it! Where have all my books gone? _Ages_ spent gathering them all, and where do they go at the slightest inconvenience? _Poof!_ That’s where!” A nonverbal scream of rage exits them as you round another corner, slowly creeping closer to your destination.

Their translucent, vaporous form resembles that of an aging elven mage – of Dalish origin, based upon the furs and intricate bindings.

He – at least, you think it’s a he based on his chosen form; gender is often a secondary though for spirits, who can change form on a whim – turns around and finally notices you. He jumps, most likely startled at not sensing your appearance, before the frenzied, agitated air returns to him.

“ _You!_ You are the one that drew us here, along with that vile fiend! What have you done with my books?!” The library that surrounds him is in disarray; shelves floating at different levels, with more books suspended around them, like a tableau of an explosion – a snapshot of destruction.

“Look around, they’re everywhere,” you return, unfazed, “After I defeat the demon, the Fade will return to its previous iteration; all manifestations should be returned to you then.”

Your calm assurance seems to pacify him. The energies eddying around him mellow, and his harsh breaths stabilize. Instead of a frantic, frenetic visage, he is once more the reflection of a prudent, yet taciturn scholar.

“Ah, well, yes,” he clears his throat, “I suppose I should have known that. Forgive my outburst; I care very deeply about my reservoir of knowledge – it is, after all, my Aspect.”

Yes, you could have guessed it. Either that or Wisdom, you’d say. For all that Wisdom is a seldom sight, Knowledge is even rarer; preferring to seclude themselves with their vast reserves of information, dipping only occasionally into the minds of mortals in search of more material, and often evading even the most well-meaning of explorers.

Whereas Wisdom reigns over the field of comprehension and application of knowledge, Knowledge cares only for the accumulation and preservation of it.

“No harm,” you brush his apology aside. It means little to you when other, more urgent matters hold your interest.

The pendulum swings, and the Sword of Damocles hangs heavy overhead.

You leave him to his archives and continue onward unopposed. The arena looms before you.

“Behold, Indolence!” it bellows, slinking forward to meet you but remaining a respectable distance away. So, you are to face one of Sloth’s ilk.

They show preference for the form of a great wyrm, dragging their vulgar, spiny length behind them on six twisted, spindly pincers. Its mouth is a round cavern filled with ring upon ring of needle-sharp teeth, like the bastard offspring of a leach. Dozens of inky black eyes consider you, arranged around what approximates its face.

“You are… no mere mortal,” they chitter unpleasantly, with an oily tone, pincers clinking across the vitrified floor. It glitters like shattered obsidian under the emerald skies of the Fade. The Black City looms ever in the far distance.

“We are… the same, you and I. Both… drawn here unwillingly. Had I access to the power I hold within my own demesne, I could… offer you more, but that is out of the cards now,” they muse sluggishly, teeth gnashing in agitation. Had you not already seen sights much more unsettling deeper within the Fade, you would likely be far more disturbed than you are.

“You are… tired, yes? I sense that much within you. No matter, no matter— what’s more, I sense a… desire, no? You wish for… something more, beyond what you can find in the waking… Mmm, yes,” they hiss with satisfaction, “That city of… metal; I’ve never seen anything like it. Dwarven make? No, no, doesn’t match the architecture— no matter, no matter.”

If they don’t get to the point, you are going to blast them into itty-bitty, charred little pieces. You are working on a _schedule_ here.

“If you were to… grant me leniency – a… gateway… into the Waking, I could… reconstruct it for you. No more… worrying, or… fighting. No more wondering on what comes next. It matters little that the body you hold is already… inhabited… if you would just… slip aside, I could squeeze in and leave you to your… mmm, _reverie_. I think that would leave everyone… pleased? You hold no particular attachment to your… fragile, fleshy container, do you? And I _know_ you fantasize about ripping all those annoying little pests into grisly, little _pieces_. My, a… _bloodthirsty_ one, aren’t you?” They trail off with another hum.

You take a moment to deliberate on considering their proposal. _Nah_.

They should have offered you chocolate. You’d at least _hesitate_ over chocolate. You can’t remember the last time you got your hands on some chocolate. You might even kill for it, at this point.

You fling a lightning bolt at them, lips twitching into a vicious grin as their indignant wailing reaches a blood-curdling pitch.

“You do not wish to deal, little pest? You insignificant _fool_ ,” they seethe, “I am the true heart of all within the Realm of Dreams, and without; the entropic end towards which the world advances. Know me, and know that I will be your end – as I am the end of all things.” And then they pounce, skewering the ground with their deadly pincers and crushing the rest with their torso, possessing a surprising amount of speed for the size of their chosen vessel.

‘With their monologuing, they could make a solid run for Pride,’ you muse as you dodge out of the way of its clumsy attack. Size and strength may be on their side, but for all their adequate speed, agility is not.

You fling fire and lightning at it, summoning storms of the elements to rain down destruction. The application of a vulnerability hex only amplifies the effectiveness of your assault. They claimed to be entropy, but spells from that school cut just as deep.

It rears back, and spits a steaming, acrid glob of acid in your direction. The air fills with the smell of sulfur, and it eats away at the floor of your previous position. A splash of it lands on you, and the caustic liquid causes your skin to blister. Your rock armor mitigates most of the damage, but you should probably cast a barrier.

You could summon a staff, but within the Fade, casting is so much easier. Spells flow seamlessly from one to the next, flying from your fingers in rapid succession, and leaving a tingling sensation in their wake.

You grease the floor as they prepare to charge, causing their overwhelming weight to ruin their momentum and direction. Changing gears, they begin firing their own volley at you, shrinking to a size that allows them more dynamic mobility. They now resemble a Shade, like most of their brethren tend to.

They throw back ice, and you meet them with more fire. Now able to match you for speed, they begin landing more hits, tearing through your clothes and drawing harsh lines on your skin.

You decide to treat them to their own medicine. You begin shifting, abandoning your unassuming elven visage for one with _teeth_ and _claws_. You want something that can _rip_ and _tear,_ rending flesh from limb. When are you next going to have such a brilliant chance to work out some pent-up aggression with minimal consequences?

When you are done, you resemble something half-way between a Pride and Desire demon. Spiky chitin covers your lithe frame, fingers end in lethal talons, asymmetrical horns pierce through the skin of your forehead – more on the right, larger than the ones on the left – and your eyes multiply, until you’re staring down at Indolence with eight slit-pupils.

The transition is swift and painless. You have done this before, and form within the Fade is only an expression of Will. You do not exist in a purely physical sense; the Ether you are made of submits to your wishes, and your wishes alone.

You sense its dawning apprehension, and you _laugh_ , towering over it with a serrated grin. You toy with it, like a cat chasing a mouse before eventually _devouring_ it.

Chased into a dead end, bleeding pitch-black ichor onto the stone below from your plethora of strikes; you petrify it, rendering it immobile. You grasp at one of the larger fragments of stone resulting from your battle, and hurl it at Indolence’s frozen frame.

They crack – shatter; fractures mirroring the world around it.

Gradually, the Fade chips and falls away, relinquishing you to the void.


	5. Blood and Lyrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so, the adventure begins...
> 
> We finally get into the actual prologue of DA:O and the appearance of Duncan. How will Anuriel handle Jowan's betrayal and convince Duncan to bring her with him? What will happen to Hadrian? Find out this week on Lost in Dreams!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Settle in folks, this ones a long one...
> 
> *So, just so my readers know, one of my proofreaders pointed out that my tenses were sloppy in the earlier chapters, so I went back and edited them. Hope its less jarring now.

The Senior Mage Quarters are much more spacious than the Apprentice Dormitories.

The bed is softer, the room is quieter, and although you still share it with three other mages, you have access to your own personal bathtub.

… You still want to leave.

The Circle may have afforded you a higher education than you would have received anywhere else – and you _are_ grateful for that, if nothing else – but it is still a prison, gilded though it may be.

Your robes are gold instead of blue now; it complements your complexion more. If only you could get your hands on some green or purple accessories.

After passing your Harrowing – and waking up somewhere you’ve never been before is _incredibly_ disorienting; apparently you were out longer than you thought you’d be after slaying Indolence – you are quickly hustled to the First Enchanter’s Office in order to receive your new robes and Ring of Study. The lyrium infused into the silver sings beautifully. You never take it off.

The Tranquil wasted no time in moving all of your belongings to your new residence. Jowan was rather frightened when no one saw you for an entire day – it wouldn’t be the first time an apprentice has up and disappeared only to never be heard from again, or subsequently show up Tranquil.

Becoming a full-blown Mage grants you more freedom within the Tower. Supposedly, you are even allowed to leave on short excursions, provided you ever manage to get Irving’s permission. Far from the warm reception you’d received when you first entered the Tower, he maintains a wary distance from you even now, mostly to your own detriment.

Hadrian has spoken up several times during meals about how Irving cautions him against spending too much time with you; something or other about being swayed onto a dark path. Bah, shows what he knows.

If anything, it’s Hadrian who’s going to end up drawing _you_ into trouble. Although well-liked by most Circle residents, _he_ is the one who’s shaping up to become a very vocal member of the Libertarians.

You avoid attending any meetings outside of the Lucrosian Fraternity. Being known for Libertarian leanings would only bring more scrutiny from up top, which you can little afford.

With the new level of autonomy you possess, you branch out your studies. In particular, you uncover a propensity for the School of Creation, specifically, healing. In your pursuit of it, it becomes clear to the Templars that you are naturally capable of calling on the rare abilities of Spirit Healers. Although prized for their talents, those who commune with any kind of Fade denizen are watched with an especially distrustful eye for any signs of corruption.

Unknown to them, you do not need to commune with any spirits, but that does not stop them from turning their enmity on you even more fiercely than previously. Damage already partially done; you make sure to stay away from the more esoteric spheres of the School of Spirit, even if they capture your interest. You do not want to give them reason to be even more wary.

Despite your cold reception and dubious reputation, you are still one of the brightest minds housed within Kinloch Hold, and it is only a little over a year before you are promoted to Junior Enchanter and given your own apprentices to mold. With the Templars watching your every move, they do not have to worry about you perverting the minds of the youth.

In light of your new responsibilities, finding time to spend with Jowan and Hadrian is somewhat more difficult – if not a little awkward, given they are still Apprentices and you are an Enchanter with students of your own. You still manage, but the short hours spent lounging in your dorm together are gone.

You actually take rather well to teaching; although your interpersonal skills still leave much to be desired, let it never be said that you skimp on the distribution of knowledge.

The one apprentice you take a particular shine to was Eadric, a fellow elf. Though raised on a farm instead of in an Alienage, he feels an acute connection to his heritage and a hunger to prove himself as a mage. It is such a respite from all of the mages who felt terrified of their gift, or elves who look down on others of their kind for some perceived failing, and disregard millennia of history as obsolete.

You bond over the casual, ingrained responses most humans had to elves, even if they are largely downplayed within the Tower. One does not so easily shed their entrenched biases, after all, even under shared circumstance.

When he displays a desire to learn the ancient language of the Elvhen, you scour the libraries for all relevant texts and teach him what you remember of the old lullaby your father often sang to you. You are determined not to play favorites, but he has thoroughly wedged himself into the cracked pavement of your stone heart, like a particularly persistent weed.

“Ah! A-Anuriel— what a, um… a pleasant surprise,” a young Templar, sans helm, trips over his own feet as you round a corner.

Speaking of _weeds_ …

“Ser Rutherford,” you greet, deadpan.

“Oh—! Oh, uh, you can… you can just call me Cullen, Anuriel— Enchanter! Enchanter Anuriel, that is…” he laughs self-deprecatingly, “Or, um, Surana. Enchanter Surana. But, um, anyway, what was I saying? Oh, yes, right, R-Rutherford is such a… a mouthful, so, um, Cullen is fine.”

That was just _painful_. Actually, physically painful. You think you felt your soul depart your body briefly.

“Cullen,” you paste on a placid smile. You’re beginning to understand all those comparisons to the Tranquil now. “While this has been… absolutely _riveting,_ I shouldn’t distract, and really must return to my own duties.”

“Oh, you’re not distracting!” He hastens to explain, “I mean, you are but… well, you’re not. I mean, you can talk to me anytime, if you want.” A long pause passes between the two of you. You think you can hear tumbleweeds in the distance. “Uh… uh, yes, maybe we can talk a-another time?”

You give a noncommittal hum, face falling back into its usual blank neutrality, and continue on your way to meet up with Jowan and Hadrian.

While someone else might have been flattered to be the recipient of such an obvious crush, you mostly find it to be a bother. Ser Cullen is, thankfully, rather naive in his affections – rather like a puppy begging for scraps of affection, honestly – but in the end, it is still just another facet of unwanted attention from your Templar jailors.

You have no idea what you might have done to garner it, but life would be much easier if you could be rid of it. Or if he could at least learn some form of _subtlety_ ; direct interactions with him always make you feel awkward, and are rife with second-hand embarrassment.

“Wow, that looked _painful_ ,” Hadrian snorts, unknowingly echoing your earlier thoughts, “How has he _not_ been reprimanded by his superiors yet? That boy doesn’t have a subtle bone in his body. He might as well stand on a table in the cafeteria and shout ‘I carry a torch for Enchanter Anuriel!’ I think it’d actually be _less_ obvious.”

“Ugh, _please_ , pretty please, just let it _die_ ,” you groan as you slump down in the seat across from him, “you’ve been going on about this for weeks.”

“Well, you’ve given me more ammunition than Jowan has. He told us he met a girl – who actually agreed to date him of her own free-will – _months_ ago, and we still haven’t seen hide-nor-hair of her. Hasn’t even told us her _name_ ; it’s enough to make a man think she doesn’t really exist,” he comments snidely as he flips through his books.

“You _really_ think Jowan would make up a girlfriend? Who would that impress?” you ask, exasperated, “And you _know_ that relations between mages are discouraged; he has every reason not to be open about it.”

“Still doesn’t excuse him,” he shrugs, scratching at the scruff on his chin. He’s gotten it into his mind that he should grow a beard – something about making him look more _manly_ and ruggedly handsome. You think he’s just trying to counteract his babyface. “Hey,” he leans forward, eyes comically wide, “what if he isn’t saying anything because it’s a _Templar_?”

He grins and waggles his eyebrows, irritating you into shoving his face away. He laughs unabashedly, disturbing the quiet of the library, so you kick him under the table before someone comes over. He levels you with a look full of fake, exaggerated pain as he nurses his bruised leg and injured pride.

Such a gadfly, this one.

“Maybe he’s jealous of my rugged good looks? You know the ladies are lining up at my door – I’d be willing to give you a sneak peak of the goods, if you’re interested. As a token of friendship,” he leers at you lecherously.

“Hadrian,” you deadpan, “I _will_ light your smallclothes on fire. _Again_.” He winces and backs off.

“Alright, alright, no need to get testy; you know I’m just jesting. The great, impenetrable fortress Anuriel is unscalable, even by the bravest of souls. Her heart of ice will remain forever frozen,” he teasingly laments, before switching tracts, “But that doesn’t explain why you don’t just let the poor lad down gently.”

You release a long, drawn-out sigh, “That would mean acknowledging it. You know I’m not the best at genuine social interaction – it was Jowan who reached out to both of us, and we don’t actually have that many other friends. I mean, people look up to you, sure, but how many of them do you actually engage with? I’m mostly hoping that if I ignore it for long enough, it’ll go away. Some of my mystique, or whatever he thinks he sees, will fade away and he’ll get his head on straight.”

Even if the interest _was_ reciprocated, relationships between mages and Templars tend not to work out.

“I don’t know, it could be fun. Really go for the whole doomed, ‘forbidden love’ angle. Like those ‘star-crossed’ lovers in that one story – Romeo and Julia?”

“Juliet.”

“Right, that. How do you come up with so many of them? Is it more stuff that you ‘saw in the Fade?’” he references your ability to remain conscious in the Fade. He doesn’t know the full extent of your control, but you had not seen the point of lying about it, despite the risk. Jowan and Hadrian are trustworthy, both longing for the world outside the Tower walls; they would not sell you out to the Circle.

“No, I read it in a book. By _William Shakespeare_ ,” you say the last part in English. Besides, the first conclusion people jump to when told of your abilities is rarely _abomination_. Much easier to assume that one is a particularly talented Spirit Healer, or a Somniari.

“Was that supposed to be a name? I’ve never heard of them,” his nose scrunches, brows furrowing, “Where do you get all these weird names from, anyway? Romeo, Juliet, _Shakespeare_ , Snow White – and who names their child that? I know you have a more voracious appetite than I do, but I still haven’t found anything like them in the entire Circle library; and I’ve been looking for _years_.”

“Shakespeare was a playwright,” you side-step his inquiry.

“A playwright? _Tch,_ must be _Orlesian_. They’re the ones who’re all about theatre. Maybe you should apply for a transferal to the White Spire; run off to Orlais, and become a famous playwright yourself,” he shrugs, “Or an apostate.”

“And deprive myself of your charming witticisms? I would _never_ ,” you drawl.

Hadrian bursts out laughing, “Ah, yes, that would be a shame. Obviously, I’d have to go with you, in that case. Drag Jowan along as well, Maker knows he needs some sun; the poor lad looks as pale as the marble statues.” He closes his books with an air of finality and pushes away from the table, “Well, I’ve got to turn this paper in to my mentor, see you around, Nuri.”

With a wink, he disappears. Left to your own devices once more, you return to your dorm. Life in the Tower makes one long for solitude – or at least the illusion of it. Given the chance, you would probably sleep uninterrupted for weeks. Sadly, life – and certain bodily functions – continue to intrude.

As the night passes, you are drawn from your wanderings when you sense a disturbance in the Force. You no longer feel the presence of Hadrian’s sleeping mind within the Fade; instead, it was pulled from your reach abruptly.

You do not linger in anyone’s dreams – outside of a few key visits to ensure they are not dreaming of anything too troubling, or being hassled by demons – out of a respect for privacy. It is something rarely afforded within the Tower, where one is constantly subject to others’ scrutiny. As a very private person, you would be quite displeased if someone were to violate _your_ privacy without your knowledge.

That does not mean you cannot sense their presence, especially the one you are so familiar with. _All_ mortals draw attention from spirits; and mages are more noteworthy than most.

This abrupt withdrawal is unlikely to mean anything good. It _is_ possible that he merely got up to use the restroom, or woke from a nightmare, but you remain uneasy. A natural awakening is a gradual process; mind gently slipping from the Fade. The manner in which he left… was more akin to being _torn_ from it.

To be woken abruptly in the middle of the night… it seems that the time has come for Hadrian to be Harrowed.

Logically, you know that Hadrian is a very powerful mage, and a cunning one as well. He has a very good chance of passing his Harrowing, all things considered. Especially since you disagreed with the Circle’s policy of secrecy surrounding it, and took pains to properly prepare your friends and students for theirs.

But you are not Tranquil, and you do not function solely on logic.

You make haste towards the realm spawned by the ritual; the walls are already closed, but with a burst of willpower, you manage to break through. Your entrance closes up behind you.

You follow his presence – it isn’t hard; a conscious mind shines _brightly_ in the Fade – and find him battling a spirit of Sloth in the form of a bereskarn. You quickly join the fight, leveling a volley of lightning at its face.

“Enough! You are a pest, and not worth all this exertion – especially now that _it_ has arrived! I will teach the mouse to be the bear, if only to be rid of you!” It promptly backs down now that the odds have turned against it.

Hadrian hesitates to drop his stance, but slowly lowers his staff once Sloth begins reluctantly mentoring the man accompanying him. He turns to see who had lent him assistance, doing a double-take when he sees that it is you.

“Anuriel!? It _is_ you right, not just a spirit that looks like you?” he exclaims before becoming cheekily thoughtful, “Although, it would be a _very_ convincing guise for a desire demon…”

You send a small static charge at him, causing him to yelp in alarm. “Fool.”

“Yep, its you alright, no demon could match your undeniable _charm_ ,” he drawls with a petulant pout. “What are you doing in my Harrowing? How did you even get in, Mouse said that all the entrances and exits were sealed, and I’ve never heard of two mages undergoing the same Harrowing before. Not to mention, that you’ve already passed yours.”

“I felt your mind leave the Fade abruptly, and followed you here before the path was blocked,” you explain while not really explaining at all.

“ _Riiight_ , I’ll just put that down to you being a creepy Somniari then, shall I? So glad you were worried about me; just goes to show that under that cold, icy exterior is a mushy, gushy heart after all.”

“If you keep that up, I’ll zap you again,” you threaten, but he only laughs. It’s not that he doesn’t take you seriously – he knows you’ll follow through; he just prefers to laugh in the face of danger with all his postured bravado.

“Wait,” he suddenly halts his laughter, face turning mock serious, “If you can get into Harrowings, does that mean… _you’re_ the Guardian of the Harrowing all the senior mages whisper about?”

Seeing no point in denying it, you nod your confirmation.

His grin nearly splits his face, “Andraste’s magnificent tits! This is perfect, wait till I tell Jowan! _Anuriel_ is the Guardian; she’s been right under their noses the whole time— Hah!” He pauses as something else occurs to him, “Wait, but if its you, how has no one recognized you this whole time? It’s been going on for years, and there’s only so many elven Enchanters with your stunning features and winning personality…?”

Instead of responding, you shift your form into something more vaporous. Hadrian’s jaw drops, eyes nearly popping out of his head. “Magnificent! You can change form like Mouse can! If you can do it, that means that I can eventually learn to do it too!” He laughs joyously.

Speaking of Mouse… It seems that Sloth has finished tutoring him. Instead of a bereskarn, he is merely a regular bear, but it is still a significant change.

“Hadrian, who is Mouse?” you ask, “And what did you do to provoke a spirit of _Sloth_? They rarely go out of their way to attack people.”

“Ah, yes, that,” he clears his throat, “Well, um, I might have been a little cocky after outwitting a spirit of Valor earlier, but in my defense, he clearly doesn’t know how to take a joke. And Mouse— or, well, Bear now, I suppose, is an apprentice who got trapped in the Fade after failing his Harrowing; the Templars killed him for taking too long, and he’s been in the Fade long enough to start, well… _fading_. Speaking of, we should really hurry onwards if we don’t want to end up like him.”

I see… It was a suspicious explanation, for sure, but it also rang too close to home for your comfort. Who’s to say that you were not once like him; an apprentice who failed her Harrowing and was damned to wander the Fade forever, slowly forgetting pieces of who you are until there’s nothing left.

Neither of you even remember your names…

“So, who is this then? Another spirit? The one who has been guarding the dreams of mages recently?” Mouse sidles up to them in his new, lumbering form, “You seem familiar with it.”

“This is Anuriel, a friend of mine. She’s a Somniari – a Dreamer who can enter the Fade at will – and a Junior Enchanter. She passed her harrowing some five years ago, now; just here to give us a helping hand,” Hadrian relays. Mouse’s – or “Bear’s” – shrewd, brown eyes bore into you, and your acidic green into him.

After a few moments, he chuffs, blowing a gust of hot air out of his nose, and your gaze slides away. Whatever he is, he is not a threat to you or Hadrian – yet.

“Right, so, let’s get a move on, shall we? Time’s a-wastin’, and the Templars can be terribly impatient!” Hadrian hurries you back down the hill and towards the field of battle. You pass by Valor – likely the one Hadrian mentioned earlier – and are beset upon by a horde of wolves. Between you, Hadrian, and Mouse, you make quick work of them. It’s almost embarrassingly easy; having three people working together for one Harrowing might be a bit overkill, honestly.

“And so, it comes to me at last,” the Rage demon says as it bubbles up from the ground. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot more wisp wraiths coming closer, forming a barrier around the arena. “Soon I shall see the land of the living with your eyes, creature. You shall be mine, body and soul.”

“It’s three against one!” Hadrian shouts, brandishing his staff, “Do you really think you can take all of us at once?”

“Three? How amusing. Have you not told them of our… arrangement, Mouse?”

“We don’t have an arrangement! Not anymore!” Mouse rejects. No time to dwell on it, not with Rage right in front of you and an army of wisp wraiths at your back. You have to keep Hadrian safe and alive, no matter what.

“Aww. And after all those wonderful meals we have shared? Now suddenly the mouse has changed the rules?” Meals? What does it mean, ‘meals’? Why would an ‘apprentice’ share a ‘meal’ with a demon?

“I’m not a mouse now! And soon I won’t have to hide! I don’t need to bargain with you!” ‘Mouse’ roars. No, he most certainly is not… and not merely because he is now in the form of a bear.

“We shall see…” Rage growls, before launching its assault. Hadrian reacts quickly with Winter’s grasp; the ice melts quickly off of Rage’s molten body, but he does succeed in slowing it.

With ‘Mouse’ and Hadrian preoccupied, you decide to take out the wisps taking pot shots. They are bonded to Rage’s essence, so that means… a vulnerability to cold. You lash out with your conjured staff, sending spikes of ice at all enemies on your side of the circle. Frozen solid, they crash to the ground, shattering on impact.

Wisp wraiths are so weak they barely count as anything above cannon-fodder. If someone actually managed to get killed by them, you think you’d laugh. Still, one shouldn’t leave their flank open to a continuous assault, as weak as it may be. Chain lightning gets rid of the ones on the other side.

Back to Rage – Hadrian’s continuous onslaught of primal magic has finally managed to freeze it. Before anyone can do anything more, Mouse rears up and slams down on the ice sculpture with a battle-cry, sending brittle shards flying.

The battle is over – but the Harrowing is not.

“You did it. You actually did it!” Mouse abandons his bear form, becoming a man once more, “When you came, I hoped that maybe you might be able to… but I never really thought any of you were worthy.”

It’s all a little too easy. Mouse’s claims, Rage’s mention of ‘meals’, and the robes he’s wearing now that he’s in mortal form…

“The ones you betrayed before me. What were their names?” Hadrian growls, staff still gripped tightly in his hand. If he was facing you, you’re sure you would see a dark glower on his face, so different from his usual easygoing humor.

He likes to play the braggart, confidently swaggering through life without a care; but Hadrian cares deeply, and underneath all his charm is a rage that has remained since he was first dragged unwillingly to the Circle.

“What?” Mouse appears taken aback, “They were not as promising as you. It was a long time ago.” Seeing that Hadrian is still unappeased, Mouse continues laying it on thick, “I… I don’t remember their names. I don’t even remember my own name. It’s the Fade, and the Templars killing me, like they tried with you.”

“Anything to survive. Like an animal; or worse.”

“I am what the Fade has made me. Am I to blame for that? Deciding to exist or not exist is not a fair choice,” Mouse seethes.

His robes… what’s standing out about them to you? All robes look the same, just with different colors; grey for Tranquil, blue for Apprentice, gold for Enchanter, red for Senior Enchanter…

“So, what is it you think you can get from me?” Hadrian’s voice has gone dark and bitter, the tone you’ve only heard on nights when he was drunk – the Circle’s kept alcohol, and sometimes the apprentices would wheedle it out of the Enchanters to smuggle into the dorms – and seething about the injustices perpetrated in the Circle by the Chantry and their Templars.

“You defeated a demon; you completed your test – even if you had a bit of help. With time, you will be a master enchanter with no equal,” Mouse cajoled, “And maybe there’s hope in that for someone as small and as… forgotten as me. If you want to help.”

Mouse was wearing red robes – for a Senior Enchanter. Wasn’t his story that he was an apprentice killed by the Templars after failing his Harrowing? If he was an apprentice, why would he be wearing Senior Enchanter robes?

“There may be a way for me to leave here, to get a foothold outside,” he continued, “You just need to want to _let me in_.”

You knew it was too easy. If Rage was the demon summoned to keep you here, killing it would have ended the ritual and released you from the Fade. Since you were all still here, that could only mean that someone else was guarding the door.

And who could that be but ‘Mouse’, with his discrepant robes, past betrayals, and shared ‘meals’ with Rage? The only meal demons hunger for are the minds of mortals, and no former apprentice – one who has been lost long enough to become as you are, or not – would join in that feast. Only a fellow demon.

Thankfully, before you could share your thoughts, Hadrian seemed to have reached the same conclusion. “I’m starting to think the other demon wasn’t my test.”

“What? What are you…? Of course, it was! What else is here that could harm an apprentice of your potential?” Mouse seems to grow more agitated as his charade unravel – before it falls away and his face blanks. A smirk crawls on his lips, “You are a smart one.”

“Simple killing is a warrior’s job.” Hadrian backs away as Mouse’s form contorts and grows larger, coming to stand at your side as you move closer, prepared to defend him once again. “The real dangers of the Fade are preconceptions, careless trust… **_Pride_**.”

The twisted visage of a Pride demon towers over the two of you. Hadrian’s face dramatically drains of color, leaving him with a grey pallor, like a corpse. Your face remains stoically impassive – it would be a hard fight, but you are confident enough in your skills to win, especially with Hadrian at your side.

“Keep your wits about you, mage. True tests… **_never_** end.”

He fades away with the rest of the landscape, darkness closing in around you and pulling you away from Hadrian.

You wake tucked into your own bed, within your dormitory. Although the sheets are warm, a chill lingers in your chest, causing you to shiver.

It is curious that Pride decided to relinquish his chance to possess Hadrian, but it is also a stroke of luck. If you hadn’t been there, and Pride had pushed the issue… There is a very good chance that Hadrian would have failed his Harrowing, skilled mage or not. It became clear that demon was an old and powerful one as soon as you felt his full presence. Having to fight it off alone would have left you severely wounded, and Hadrian does not have your experience in battling demons.

You leap from bed and pad over to the door, peering out into the hallway. It is dark, and filled with the orange glow of the lanterns, flickering over the watching Templars’ armor. It is not yet dawn, and curfew is yet to be lifted. You could sneak out, but if you are caught… it would not look good. You will wait for the sun to rise, then set off to see Hadrian.

You pull a few books from your overflowing shelves, and settle in to wait. You are far too high strung to attempt sleep again. Hours pass, and the sun eventually starts to creep through your window; more a huge slab of stone carved reminiscent of a window, with a hint of glass at the very top, far above your head.

You pop your head into the cubicle next to yours, “Niall.”

Your harsh whisper rouses him and he groans drowsily, “Anuriel? Maker’s breath, what do you want so early in the morning?”

“Tell my students that classes are dismissed today; I’m taking a day off.”

“Ungh, why can’t you tell them yourself and let me sleep?” he grumbles, burrowing deeper into the blankets.

“Irving’s been talking about promoting you to Enchanter soon, hasn’t he? Don’t you want to get more comfortable around kids?”

“More like you just want to push your responsibilities off on me and be lazy. Fine, fine, I’ll do it, now let me go back to sleep. I want to get at least a little more shut eye before breakfast.”

Arrangements made and formalities met, you make your way to the apprentice quarters. You feel the eyes of the Templars on your back keenly. It is quite early to be out of bed.

Coming to the dorm room that houses Hadrian, you find him passed out on his bed Jowan hovering over his prone body, fretting. He looks up as you near, features slackening with relief, “Anuriel! Thank the Maker you’re here, the Templars just carried him back in – I think he’s just completed his Harrowing.”

You hum in agreement and settle in to wait. You’re likely to be there till noon, might even miss lunch. You were out for two days after your Harrowing, but you were an exception. Most others only took half a day and felt nauseous, weak, and/or dizzy for about a week afterwards. Probably the fumes.

“I didn’t even notice he’d been gone all night. I know you told us what to expect but there’s still so many who don’t come back from Harrowings. It’s easy to see why some people choose Tranquility when the other options are battling a demon or dying,” Jowan muses.

You send him a sharp glare and he chuckles self-consciously. If he is too loud, you’ll get in serious trouble for flouting the Circle’s ridiculous rules.

“I’d never go for Tranquility though,” he shivers, “They’re just husks; existing and breathing, but not truly living. No dreams, hopes, fears – no _humanity_. It’s just another type of death.” He glances up to see you looking at him blankly, and backtracks, “I know, I know, you don’t like it when people imply that the Tranquil aren’t people too, but it _is_ , and I know you know that. What was it you said? About creativity and the death of individuality?”

“Creativity is an expression of life,” you quote, “Art, music, dance; all these things are how we communicate our individual experiences and connect with a larger whole. A society without individual creativity is not a society at all; it is a machine.”

“Right, that! But if a society without creativity is a machine, how is a person without creativity alive?”

“Creativity and emotion are not the same. Emotion often fuels it, but it does not define it. Tranquil are capable of being creative the way an extremely efficient scientist is capable of thinking up creative solutions to problems. Even a machine, if capable of creativity and self-determination, might have a claim to personhood.

“Do the Tranquil still breath? Do their hearts still beat? Do they bleed as red as we do? Are they not capable of higher though, the same as you are? As we all are? They still possess the desire to live, and have memories of their past. If they are able to argue their personhood, should we not grant it to them? What do we gain by refusing it? And if we _do_ refuse it, where do we draw the line? What gives someone a _right_ to personhood? Who decides it? And when they decide it, what’s to stop them from denying our claims?

“It’s already far too easy to demonize mages and elves. Countless atrocities are committed against them daily, and are allowed to continue because in the eyes of society, they are not _people_. They are the _Other_. The _Them_ in an ‘Us vs. Them’ mentality. If mages are not people, why protect them? Why not kill us all at birth, or perform the Right of Annulment in every Circle across Thedas? What’s to stop them, to stop _anyone_ from slaughtering us like animals? To deny someone personhood is to deny them the right to live freely, and unafraid. _That_ , Jowan, is why we must defend _our_ right to personhood; _their_ right to personhood; _every-living-breathing-thinking-thing’s_ right to personhood – because if we do not defend them, when the time comes, no one will be left to defend us.”

You are breathing heavily by the end of your rant, eyes locked on Jowan’s wide ones. Looking around, you see that most of the other apprentices have stopped getting ready for the day, instead turning to watch you – to listen as your voice grew louder, and more urgent as you became more invested in what you were saying.

The silence is complete; until it is broken by one person’s clapping, which turns into the room quietly clapping at the conclusion of your speech. Slowly, the applause dies out, and they return to their activities, but with a more pensive air about them.

You turn back to Jowan, who is still sitting there with his jaw open. You raise an eyebrow and he quickly clears his throat, flushing like a strawberry, “Well, that was certainly a more impassioned response than I expected, but well said, Anuriel. I didn’t know you cared about _anything_ that deeply – except maybe books. I _still_ shudder every time I remember how you reacted when I accidentally lit that text on fire.” He shudders in demonstration.

You shrug. You hadn’t really meant to give a speech on it in the first place; you hold a lot of these kinds of debates in your own head and it sort of just… finally bubbled over. “You should talk to Owain,” you advise, “—Actually talk _to_ him, not just _at_ him, like I know a lot of people do with Tranquil. He has a dry humor, and is surprisingly philosophical.” You sigh. “They’re just _people,_ Jowan; it doesn’t make what was done to them any better, but it isn’t something to look down on them for. Blame the ones who made them that way, if anything.”

“Alright, alright, I get it,” he laughs, “No need to batter me upside the head with it. They’re still creepy though… I guess we’re in for a bit of a wait, huh? Wanna play Wicked Grace?”

Well, you’ve got nothing better to do. “Sure,” you say, and Jowan begins dealing.

The hours pass with little to differentiate them, and by the time is almost at its apex, you’ve already won twelve out of seventeen games.

“Arghh, how are you so good? Are you cheating?” Jowan squints suspiciously at you, “You’re cheating, aren’t you? There’s no other excuse. You dirty, dirty cheater.”

“I’m not cheating,” you deny, but your lips are twitching into a smile.

“Yes, you are! You totally are, and you’re a horrible person. I’m already broke, what more do you want from me? The shirt off my back? ‘Those who steal are hated and accursed by the Maker, they shall find no rest in this world or at His side.’”

“It’s ‘Those who steal from their brothers and sisters do harm to their livelihood and to their peace of mind’, ‘Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker’, and ‘Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond.’” you recite in rebuttal.

“How do you know all that off the top of your head? I spend more time in the Chantry than you do and even _I_ can’t remember the Chant off the top of my head. How much do you know? Are you even Andrastian? You don’t seem particularly devout,” Jowan asks incredulously.

“My mother forced me to attend the Revered Mother’s seminars when I was in the Alienage, and I have to make at least a cursory effort at not being declared a heretical heathen by the officials in the Circle. You were sitting right next to me during the mandatory congregations, when we first came to the Circle.”

“But that still doesn’t explain how you can just recite it, or whether you’re Andrastian or not. And what would the Mother’s opinions of you matter, anyway?”

“I memorized most of it. If I don’t know the material of the source, how am I to formulate a convincing argument? And as for being Andrastian… I don’t know. There might be a Maker, there might not. He might even just be a regular spirit. But whether Andraste was holy or not, she still fought against Tevinter and freed my people, granting them the Dales. That counts for something. As for loyalty to the Chantry on the other hand— I have none,” you state, drawing another card, “The exact words of Andraste have been lost or corrupted over time, and most of the Chant of Light can’t even be attributed to her. I don’t believe that religion should play a part in politics; it’s too easy to excuse atrocities by claiming divine mandate, like the Exalted Marches, or the way Orlais became an empire by conquering neighboring regions and abolishing their culture.” 

“Outside of that, the Chantry has removed and edited parts of the Chant – which is supposed to be sacred – and most Andrastians are hypocrites; touting the Chant of Light and then turning around and breaking its commandments. ‘All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands,’ the Chant says, ‘From the lowest slaves to the highest kings. Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker,’” your voice falls to a sad whisper, “And yet, look at their actions – their words, their thoughts, their feelings. They recite it, but they do not take it into their hearts. Their faith is performative; a charade, a facade, a mask to hide behind as they continue to perpetuate a vicious cycle of abuse and bigotry.”

“I am not inclined towards faith; I will never express unwavering belief for anything I cannot verify by some means, and I am too cynical to devote myself to something I cannot trust whole-heartedly – of which there is nothing, for it is impossible to know the utter truth of anything. But that does not mean I cannot hold others to their own meter, and loathe them when they fall short. ‘There is but one Truth. All things are known to our Maker and He shall judge their lies.’ If they truly believed they would be judged by a higher power, they would not act in opposition of its mandates. It is the ones who truly embody their faith, while not lacking in moral character, for whom I reserve my respect,” you conclude. “Also, I have three songs, two serpents, and a knight. I win again.”

“Oh, come on! You have that whole deep speech, the second one today, and then you end it with ‘I win again’? You rotten cheater! There’s no way you can have so many great hands without cheating!” Jowan’s outburst seems to be the last straw keeping Hadrian from waking up. He shifts with a groan and Jowan quickly quiets, turning to hover over him again. You set your cards down. “Are you alright? Say something, please…” Jowan pleads.

“Where… am I?” he questions groggily, “Is this still the Fade? Did we win?”

“You’re in the dormitory. Take a deep breath… You’re safe,” Jowan comforts. You stand and walk over to them. Hadrian’s eyes seem to clear.

“Jowan? …‘Nuriel?”

“I’m glad you’re alright. They carried you in this morning. I didn’t even realize you’d been gone all night. Nuri and I have been waiting for you to wake up since morning.”

“What… time is it?” he coughs into his elbow.

You pass him a glass of water. “Almost three in the afternoon,” you reply, “You missed lunch, so I brought you some.”

“Oh, thanks,” he takes a sip, “Ah, that hits the spot. Battling demons, eh? Who knew it’d leave you so thirsty?”

“So, you passed your Harrowing, and now you get to move to the nice mages’ quarters with Anuriel. Meanwhile, I’m stuck here, alone, and I don’t know _when_ they’ll call me for _my_ Harrowing,” Jowan grumbles.

“Any day now, probably,” Hadrian says around a mouthful of food.

You send a zap at him and he jumps, glaring at you. ‘Manners,’ you mouth at him. He sticks his tongue out at you.

“But I’ve been here longer than either of you, and you’ve both been tested already. Sometimes I think they just don’t _want_ to test me.”

“You were only here for a few months before Nuri,” Hadrian points out.

“And she went through her Harrowing _years_ before most apprentices. I’ve been ready for a long time. I’m afraid they don’t want me to take the test,” he confesses, “You do the Harrowing, the Right of Tranquility… or you die. That’s what happens.”

You and Hadrian lock eyes over Jowan’s shoulder. It’d be nice to say for certain that they’re not going to kill him, but you’re both smart enough to know otherwise.

“What does this have to do with you?” Hadrian questions slowly.

“I’m afraid of what will happen to me. If… if they don’t call apprentices to the Harrowing, it probably means… Tranquility. You’ve seen Tranquil around the Tower. Like Owain, who runs the stockroom. I know Nuri likes him, for some reason, but he’s just so… cold. No, not even cold— there’s just… _nothing_ in him. It’s like he’s dead, but still walking. His voice, his eyes are lifeless…” his voice slowly trails off.

“What makes you think that’s going to happen to you? Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” you ask in the grim silence.

“The Circle forces Tranquility on those they feel are weak. And sometimes they force it on apprentices they think might be too… _dangerous_ as mages.”

You are intimately aware of that. It had remained a quiet fear throughout your apprenticeship, as you felt the eyes of the Templars drilling into you further with every display of magical excellence and irreverence. The way the more conservative mages’ eyes lingered on you contemptuously. Would you even make it to your Harrowing? So many variables were against you.

The day you were taken for your Harrowing, you feared two things: being found out as an abomination and slain, or forced to undergo the Rite of Tranquility because you were deemed too dangerous and rebellious.

Jowan breaks the silence again before anyone can muster a response, “I— I shouldn’t waste your time with this. We were supposed to tell you to see Irving as soon as you woke up,” Jowan references earlier, when a Tranquil had stopped by to inform you that Irving wished to see him. “I’ll… see you later,” Jowan exits the dorms before anything more can be added, leaving you and Hadrian alone for the most part. Only a few apprentices are left in the dorms at this time of day.

“Well, that was… something,” Hadrian grins weakly. “Irving awaits?” he tries instead.

You scoff, “Better you meet that summons on your own; you know Irving despises me.”

“I don’t see why the two of you can’t get along?”

“He knows I don’t dance to his tune,” you leave it at that, “I’m free today, so I’ll be in the library if you need me.” You turn to go, ignoring the girls tittering in the corner and shooting you jealous glances. Ugh, admirers. And he dares make fun of you for having to deal with Cullen?

As you head back upstairs, you pass by several classrooms in use; the younger apprentices going over their theoretical studies and lectures, the older ones learning how to create lasting barriers and control primal forces, while numerous others browse the myriad libraries.

As you enter the Senior Mages’ Quarters, you overhear a snippet of hushed conversation.

“Hey, have you heard the news? Rumor has it that a group of apprentices saw a Grey Warden entering the Tower.”

“A Grey Warden? What could they possibly want with us now? We’ve already given them seven senior mages. Isn’t that enough?”

“I hear Wardens are willing to do anything to combat the Blight. Do you think another one is happening?”

“Preposterous. The last Blight was hundreds of years ago, during the Exalted Age. Everyone knows the darkspawn are a dwarven problem now.”

“Still, the Grey Wardens are renowned warriors. Do you think he’s here to recruit?”

“I hope he picks me…”

“He wouldn’t pick you, idiot! Your useless with anything but ice!”

“Hey!”

“Quiet down, or you’ll bring the Templars down on all of us!”

A Warden? Likely they’ve come to harass the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander for more soldiers in their army. For some reason, you have a bad feeling when you think about the king’s war in the south. Rumors have been floating around that they’ve been fighting everyone from the Chasind, to Orlais, to Werewolves, or even the Witches of the Wilds. If a Grey Warden is involved, it lends credence to the enemy being an incursion of darkspawn.

You find a book and settle down in an out of the way nook to not be disturbed as you read. Your serenity is shattered when Jowan appears again looking frazzled, Hadrian trailing close behind him.

“Is… this where you wanted to talk?” Hadrian asks, peering around.

“No, no, its not safe enough. I just needed to find Anuriel,” Jowan replies, fidgeting nervously.

You raise an eyebrow. “He’s going through another personal crisis,” Hadrian tries to laugh it off, but his erratic behavior is clearly getting to both of you by the strain in his brow.

“Very funny,” Jowan harrumphs, “Look, I need to talk to you; its about earlier. Could you _please_ just follow me without making this more difficult?”

Sighing, you put away your book and stand to follow him. You grow even more confused as he leads you into the chapel. It’s mostly deserted this time of day, but it is still an odd place for a secret rendezvous.

“We should be safe here,” he says as he takes a stand by one of the Chantry priests.

“In the chapel?” you say slowly, “The Templars’ favorite haunt?”

“You _do_ realize there’s a priest standing _right there_ , don’t you? You haven’t suddenly gone blind, have you?” Hadrian snarks irritably.

“Not a priest. I am merely an initiate. And we can see the door from here. If anyone comes, we’ll change the subject,” the priest – _initiate_ – assuages.

“Three mages and an initiate will still look odd,” you grumble to Hadrian.

“A few months ago, I told you that I… met a girl. This is Lily.”

“Ah. I was beginning to doubt her existence,” Hadrian jokes.

You look directly into Lily’s eyes and deadpan, “My condolences, Lily.”

“Oh haha, very funny,” Jowan hisses, eyes narrowing at you, “I was afraid to tell anyone. Lily was becoming a Chantry priest. She’s taken her vows…”

An apprentice and an initiate? Even if mages _weren’t_ heavily discouraged from seeking out interpersonal relations, it still wouldn’t work out. Can’t have the spellbinds _breeding_ after all, Maker forbid.

“Lily’s been given to the Chantry. She is not allowed to have… _relations_ with men. If anyone finds out… we’ll both be in trouble,” he continues.

“You _can’t_ have brought us here to chat about love,” Hadrian drawls incredulously.

Your hand flashes out and jabs him, hard, right under the ribs. He wheezes in pain. Smiling beatifically, you reply, “You can trust us. We won’t tell anyone.” Whether we agree with your taste or not, is left unsaid.

“Thank you. I knew you’d stand by me,” Jowan expresses his relief. Lily seems slightly perturbed by your casual violence and megawatt smile.

“Great. Get married. Have kids,” Hadrian groans, still rubbing his side, then whines, “Can I go now?”

 _Such_ a child. Honestly. You’d think he’d have more dignity.

“No, there’s something else. Remember when I said I didn’t think they wanted to give me my Harrowing? I know why. They’re… going to make me Tranquil,” the atmosphere drops like a stone from one of the second-floor windows, “They’ll take everything from me—! My dreams, hopes, fears… my love for Lily. All gone…” His voice trails off in a whisper as he turns to look at her.

“That sounds… terrible,” for once, Hadrian appears lost for words, “I— how did you find out about this?”

Lily speaks up, “I saw the document on Greagoir’s table. It authorized the Rite on Jowan, and Irving had signed it.”

“Why would they do this to you?” you ask. Even if the Circle’s policies are suspect at best, they still wouldn’t forgo a Harrowing without a reason.

“There’s… a rumor about me. People think I’m a blood mage,” he admits, “They think that making me a circle mage will endanger everyone.”

“So… what are you going to do?” Hadrian asks.

“I need to escape. I need to destroy my phylactery. Without it, they can’t track me down. We need your help. Lily and I can’t do it on our own,” he pleads.

“Give us your word that you will help, and we will tell you what we intend.”

“ _Are_ you a blood mage?” Hadrian asks point-blank, but nonjudgmentally. You feel like face palming. You don’t just _ask_ someone that, Hadrian! Especially not when there’s a priest literally _right_ next to him! Even if it’s true, of course he’ll lie!

“Of course not! I’d never use blood magic!” he immediately denies, confirming your suspicions, “I’ve been sneaking around to meet Lily in secret. Maybe others have seen me and assumed I must be doing something forbidden. I suppose we _are_ , but… they think it’s blood magic and it isn’t.”

“But… can’t you just explain it to someone then? The First Enchanter?” Hadrian has a lost expression on his face. Poor fool, he still believes in Irving’s good intentions. You don’t know why you don’t trust him, but you’ve learned to trust your gut. You’re rarely wrong about people.

“I’ve thought about it… but it will only make things worse. Lily will be punished. I can’t do that to her. Maybe if it were just Irving, he’d spare me. But he has to keep the peace between the Circle and the Chantry. If he stirs up too much trouble, they might replace him. They could wipe out the entire Circle if they wanted. The Chantry _abhors_ blood magic; that why they’re willing to pay attention to this stupid rumor! If we tell _anyone_ , Lily will get punished. If you care what happens to me, help us,” he begs, clutching Lily’s hand.

“And what’s in this for me, huh? What do I get out of this?” The vitriol in Hadrian’s voice surprises you, but a wild look has entered his eyes.

“The joy of helping a friend? The satisfaction of knowing you prevented a gross injustice?” Jowan tries.

“The repository holds more than phylacteries. Join us, and the artifacts will be yours for the taking,” Lily suggests.

“Aren’t you sick and tired of the Circle running your life? You could get out of here with us!”

Hadrian shakes his head, “It’s too late. My phylactery has been taken to Denerim. I’m still trapped. They’ll just track me down, and then what?”

He raises a good point. You are an Enchanter, and one already in hot water with most of the Circle’s upper echelons. If you are caught after helping a known or suspected blood mage escape… Chantry law forbids those who have passed their Harrowing from being made Tranquil, but that won’t save you from execution.

“You’ll be out of here and gone before they can even dispatch a messenger to the city. You’re both talented and clever. You could take your phylacteries back from your hunters, if you wished. You have _so_ much power. Once you’re free… they wouldn’t be able to stop you,” Jowan’s voice grows wistful near the end.

“I— I need to think this over,” Hadrian slowly backs away. Lily and Jowan’s faces fall.

“I… suppose that’s fair. But please give us your answer soon. Time is running out.”

Hadrian flees. “I’ll talk to him,” you try to reassure, then follow after him.

He doesn’t go far – just to one of the more secluded isles of the main library. He crouches down, hugging his sides. He’s almost hyperventilating.

You crouch down beside him, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I-I— They’ll kill him Nuri! They’ll make him Tranquil, and it’ll as good as kill him, or he’ll escape and they’ll kill him for being an apostate! And— and what about me? What about _us_? We help him, and then what? _We’re_ made Tranquil for helping him escape. I _want_ to help him, Nuri, really, I do, b-but— I can’t be Tranquil, Nuri! I-I can’t! I still have to—! Still have to…” he trails off, staring into the distance, “I have to talk to Irving, t-to make him see that this is all just— just a big mistake, a huge misunderstanding! I-I have to go…” He pushes up off the floor and hurries in the direction of the First Enchanter’s office.

“Hadrian!” you shout after his retreating form, but he doesn’t acknowledge you. You are left standing alone, in the middle of a crisis.

“Ah, hello there, Enchanter,” a voice speaks from behind you. You whirl around. “It seems you are having a spot of trouble. Is your friend well?”

“He’s fine,” you reply automatically, taking him in. He’s rather intimidating looking, with a warrior’s musculature, a rough beard, weather-beaten face, and dark hair greying at the temples. His skin is only a few tones darker than Hadrian’s.

With your short, elven stature, you’ve grown used to looking up when people are speaking to you, so instead of travelling up, your gaze travels down – and comes to a stop. On his silver chest, at your eye-level, is a stylized griffon heraldry.

The Grey Warden.

“Well, you would know better than I would, I suppose,” he hums pensively, “But, where are my manners? I am Duncan, of the Grey Wardens, and you are?”

“Enchanter Anuriel,” you resist the urge to stick out your hand, “You are here to conscript more mages for the king’s army?”

“Indeed. When the king sent out the call, the Circle of Ferelden sent only _seven_ mages to Ostagar. I asked King Cailan’s permission to come and seek a greater commitment from the Circle.”

“Seven mages are quite a few, by the Chantry’s standards. You’re unlikely to bargain anymore from their iron grip.”

“Be that as it may, I hope to place a mage or two within every contingent. I cannot do with just seven. Mages will make all the difference in this battle. The darkspawn have their own magic, and our resources must exceed theirs.”

“Now _that_ will be impossible to argue,” you scoff, “Seven senior mages outside of the Chantry’s supervision is already a hard compromise. We are trained for war, but the Templars will roll in their graves before actually allowing us to _fight_ in it.”

An intrigued look passes over Duncan’s face, “Oh? You do not fear using the power at your disposal, do you? Magic is dangerous, yes, but necessary.”

“Fear it? The common fear of magic is born from misunderstanding. Sure, it can raze fields and melt flesh from bone, but it can also mend it, and bring forth life. The dangers of magic lay in how it is used, and who wields it. Those commonly associated with it, blood magic and abominations, are born equally from consorting with demons and a lust for power. They are not inherent to magic, or those who wield it. Even non-mages can become possessed, if they are not careful. And possession poses no risk to one with the willpower to defend themselves, or else the Harrowing would be entirely useless in the first place,” you rant.

“You’ve put some thought into this,” Duncan raises an eyebrow.

“I have had much time to think,” you snark back.

“I sometimes wonder if the Chantry’s many laws regarding magic are necessary,” he confides quietly, “Darkspawn are a greater threat than blood mages, even abominations. It takes decades for the world to recover from a Blight. I wish the Chantry would see that. We must stop at nothing to defeat the darkspawn, before they overrun the world.” He pauses and considers you with a long glance, “I don’t suppose _you_ would be interested in joining the king’s army, given your thoughts, would you?”

You laughed derisively, “I doubt I will be allowed to go, even if you ask. I have been unable to secure Irving’s permission to leave the Circle even on mundane trips.”

He hums noncommittally, “Perhaps I will speak to Irving about this later. It would not hurt to have another voice on your behalf. Now, I believe your friend is waiting for you. Good day. I hope we shall meet again.”

You hear him leave as you turn back to see Hadrian once more at the entrance of the alcove. His face is set in a furious glower as he storms over to you, “It’s a set-up! It’s all a big set-up! There were books on blood magic right in the middle of the library; just sitting there for any apprentice to find! Irving knows about Lily – knows she told Jowan about his Tranquility. It all leads back to Greagoir – you know he hates us, Nuri! He hates all mages; he’ll take any excuse he can to make one Tranquil.”

“I— what?” You try to follow along with his frantic speech.

“It’s all a set-up – and Irving is too blind to see it. Or unwilling,” he fumes. He stalks closer, towering over you, and hisses more quietly in your ear, eyes darting around for eavesdroppers, “We’ve got to get him out, Nuri. We’ve got to stop this. Look, we’ll hear his plan, and when he goes, we go too. Are you with me?” His eyes bore into yours solemnly.

You take a moment to really think about it. Duncan offered to make your case to the First Enchanter – but for what? You go fight the darkspawn, and then are marched back by Templar guard, never to see the outside world again so long as Irving lives? And what if you escape? They hunt you down with your phylactery, leading to either you or them dying? Because you’ll die before you allow them to perform the Rite on you. You’re not sure if it would even work; but you don’t intend to find out.

You suppose it comes down to whether you want to die free, or trapped within the Circle.

Suddenly, you can’t stand to stay there another _single_ second. All of your blood sings to escape – to run away and never look back.

“I’m with you,” you lock eyes with him, and a grim understanding passes between you. Whatever happens now, you’re all in this together.

You walk back into the chapel together. Jowan and Lily are where you left them, standing worried and dejectedly.

They perk up at your arrival. “Are you going to help us?” Jowan asks hopefully.

Hadrian exchanges a glance with you, “You have our word; we’ll help you.”

“Thank you,” Lily clasps her hands together in gratitude, “We will never forget this.”

Hadrian shifts uncomfortably and grumbles, “Just tell us the plan already, and make it quick.” He glares at them in warning, “And it had better be a good one.”

“I can get us into the repository. But there is a problem,” Lily explains, “There are two locks on the phylactery chamber door. The First-Enchanter and Knight-Commander each hold one key. But it is just a door. There is power enough in this place to destroy all of Ferelden. What’s a door to mages?”

Lily makes a good point, _but_ — “It can’t be that easy, or else someone would have tried by now. What if it’s a magic door?”

“We have no choice – we have to at least _try_. We can’t get our hands on both keys—” True. “—I once saw a rod of fire melt through a lock—” wait, _when was this_? “—You could get one from the stockroom. But Owain doesn’t release such things to apprentices,” Jowan finishes.

Okay, brushing aside the whole ‘under what circumstances did you watch a rod of fire _melt a lock_ ’ and ‘where were _you_ when this was happening’ thing, there is still a glaring problem with this plan, “Yeah, no _shit_ he ‘doesn’t release such things to apprentices’, why do you _think_ I have such a successful black-market operation, Jowan?”

“—Wait, you have a _what_ — _!?_ ” Not now, Lily.

“In order to take _anything_ from the stockroom, you require a Senior Enchanter’s authorization and a reason for acquirement. And then to get a Senior Enchanter to sign off on it, you need to write a proposal, as a brief overview of the exact research you intend to do. A properly referenced and footnoted one too,” You retort dryly.

“Oh,” Jowan says, discouraged, “Well, how long will it take you to prepare one of those?”

“If I started right now? A _week_ ,” you seethe. Honestly, does no one take note of these kinds of things? You’d have to come up with a premise, search for the appropriate books, actually _acquire_ and _read_ the appropriate books – and as this is a _library_ , that _alone_ can take a full week – and then write up a proposal that looks professional and convincing enough that it _won’t_ get immediately vetoed by a Senior Enchanter. And then they _still_ might say no, because they’re _petty_.

_Academics_. Bah!

“But we don’t have a week! The document is already signed, they could do it _tonight_!”

“I know, Jowan!” you hiss, “Just give me a minute to _think_.” He flinches back at your venomous glare.

Okay, so. Need a way to get past this door. It would take a _lot_ of intense concentration to create a flame hot enough to melt metal, and then _keep_ it that way long enough for it to actually work. You could blow it up, but that would bring too much attention; you are all depending on this plan to actually _succeed_ after all.

“We could blow it up?” Hadrian suggest immediately after.

“ _No_.” He wilts.

So, rod of fire it is then. But how to get a Senior Enchanter’s permission? Are there any you have any blackmail on? There’s Keegan— but he went to Ostagar. Damn. Okay, who else? Wait, how could you have forgotten, didn’t Leorah just make Senior Enchanter less than two weeks ago? You were her pupil; you can probably convince her to waive your lack of a proper proposal.

“Leorah – Senior Enchanter Leorah. She was my mentor. I can convince her to sign the permission slip,” you announce.

“Oh, that’s much better than my idea. I was going to suggest we convince Sweeney,” Hadrian seems revitalized, “Let’s not waste more time then.”

“We should stay here. One mage at the stockroom will attract less attention than two mages, an apprentice, and an initiate,” Lily proposes.

“Good idea.” You still have a bad feeling about this plan. No matter how you try to rationalize it, it just won’t go away.

“Good luck,” Lily tells you, “Our prayers go with you.”

You head to the stockroom to retrieve the permission slip for the rod of fire.

Owain greets you, “Welcome to the Circle’s stockroom of magical items. My name is Owain. How may I assist you?” That’s Owain, alright. Classic customer service voice. Even though you’d consider yourself friends – being one of the only non-Tranquil mages who talks to him like a real person on the regular – he always sticks with the same conversation opening.

“I need a form for a rod of fire.”

“Rods of fire serve many purposes. Why do you wish to acquire this particular item?”

“I’m studying the combustible properties of marsh flora,” you lie through your teeth.

“I will set down that you require the rod for research purposes,” one of the other Tranquil hands him the form, which he holds out to you, “Here is the form – ‘Request for Rod of Fire.’ Have it signed and dated by a Senior Enchanter. I will release the rod to you once I have the signed form.”

You take it from him, “Thank you, Owain.”

“Thank you, Enchanter Anuriel,” he returns in monotone. But! He does remember your name! That counts for something.

You head off in search of Leorah. Ever since she was promoted to Senior Enchanter, she has been put in charge of the laboratories. You check through each one until you spy her red robe standing in front of the door to the stockroom.

“Senior Enchanter Leorah,” you call out. She startles at your presence, whipping he head to look at you with wide eyes. Odd. During her mentorship, she was somewhat neurotic, but not to this level.

“Oh, Anuriel, it’s just you,” she breathes a sigh of relief, untensing, “What brings you to the laboratory?”

“I need a signed permission for a rod of fire,” you hold it out towards her.

“Oh, a rod of fire? It says you want it for research purposes. What are you researching this time?”

“The combustible properties of marsh flora.” You have a story and you’re sticking to it.

“You’re… You’re saying you’re burning plants?” she asks slowly.

“It’s related to another project I plan to work on.”

“Oh, you and your projects,” she sighs exasperatedly, but not without a hint of fondness, “Very well, where’s your proposal?”

“Someone else is using one of the books I need and the other one got set on fire by one of the apprentices.”

“Oh, not again…! That happens at least once every year!” she rants, “But, Anuriel, you know I’m not supposed to sign this without looking over a proposal.”

“I know, but I didn’t want to wait. Since you were recently promoted to Senior Enchanter, I was hoping you could vouch for my character and overlook it. You know how seriously I take the pursuit of knowledge,” you persuade.

“Well, I really shouldn’t, but…” she brightens, “Oh, I know! How about you do a little favor for me, and I’ll do a little favor for you?”

You’ve got her. “Like what?”

“There is an infestation of spiders in the caves,” she confesses readily, “I don’t know how they got in there, but it’s probably my fault. I was promoted to Senior Enchanter less than a fortnight ago and I don’t want anyone to find out. They’ll think I’m incompetent. If you clear out the infestation, I’ll sign your form.”

…Spiders. Like… _giant_ spiders. With their too many eyes and too many hair legs… And giant, man-eating pincers… You feel a little sick, actually.

“How… many exactly are we talking? How deep into the caves?” you ask faintly.

“Oh, it can’t be that many; the Circle’s in the middle of a lake after all, and it’s a fairly recent infestation. How far? I can’t say, but all you’d need to do is take a quick jaunt through and kill everything you see,” she says seriously.

“Is it alright if I bring a friend? He won’t tell anyone, I promise, and we’ll be done quicker with two people,” you suggest. You _really_ don’t want to be alone with a dozen giant spiders. You’d die alone, in the dark, with no one to hear your screams… You shudder at the image.

“Oh, well, I suppose it’s alright. As long as he doesn’t tell anyone, I suppose I can trust you.”

“Thank you, I’ll be right back with him,” you head back towards the chapel.

“Hadrian,” you grab his attention, “Come to storeroom with me. Leorah agreed but I have to help her clear out the storeroom first.”

“Clear it out? What do you mean clear it out? What’s in there that needs clearing that she can’t do herself?”

“Giant spiders,” you deadpan.

“Giant spiders—? Oh, that hilarious! You’re both too terrified of giant spiders, you need someone else to help you! Hah!” He bursts out laughing. You’re so glad he’s enjoying your misery.

“Just shut up and come help, you nughumper,” you grumble. He keeps wheezing, slowly dying off into snickers, but he follows.

“Wonderful, you’re back. Here is the key. Oh, and be careful in there. I’d really like to keep the damage done to the Circle’s property to a minimum,” she warns, handing you the key.

“We will,” Hadrian promises with a grin. He’s still repressing laughter. You kick him in the ankle but he doesn’t respond.

“Well, good luck then, the both of you,” is her final farewell as you walk inside and shut the door behind you.

“We should— steal everything,” you and Hadrian say at the same time. You lock eyes with matching grins.

“I’ll get the potions you get the items? We can sell them in the first town we see,” you suggest. Hadrian easily acquiesces, and you split off.

While you’re sorting through the potions, Hadrian lets out an earsplitting screech. You whip around to see him being overwhelmed by a spider. You send out a bolt of lightning, frying it instantly. Hadrian shoves it off, retching at the stench of fried spider. He scampers away, retching in a corner.

“ _Who’s_ too afraid of spiders?” you tease, smirking.

He sends you a death glare, “Shut up.” You snicker, but remain silent.

You continue on through the caverns, snatching supplies as you go. You’d long ago sown enormous hidden pockets into your robes, something you’ll have to do with Hadrian too – if you don’t ditch your mage robes right after escaping that is. Can’t exactly walk around inconspicuously with robes on and a stave on your back, after all.

You’ve had your personalized staff for five years; you’ll be sad to part with it. Perhaps you can meet up with the mage underground and pawn it off? It’d be nice to know _someone_ is still getting some use from it.

Hadrian hasn’t been a Harrowed mage long enough to put in a request for a personalized staff. Instead, he’s toting around one of the standard practice ones. It feels weird to think that so much has happened in the span of just twenty-four hours.

Another spider drops down practically on top of you and you scream, swinging your staff around wildly in front of you, sending gouts of flame everywhere. “AH! Kill it! Kill it! Kill it with fire!” you shriek.

“Woah! Watch it with the friendly fire!” Hadrian says then pauses, “Wait, friendly fire? That’s hilarious!”

Once you’ve finally calmed down, the spider that surprised you has been sufficiently charbroiled. You huff in exertion, nerves still jittering.

“Right, so, remind me to never get on your bad side. Or sneak up behind you,” Hadrian jokes, but its honestly probably good advice.

“I’d say you walk in front,” you huff, “But I don’t want one sneaking up behind me, either.”

“Aww, why’d you have to bring that up?” he whines, looking over his shoulder nervously.

It continues like that, with you sending giant streams of fire at anything that moved and Hadrian making up the rear, making potshots at anything you didn’t burn to ashes first. There was probably a bit of property destruction going on, but what did you care? You’d be out of here by tomorrow morning.

You hear the hum of lyrium coming from a chest hidden in one of the alcoves and cautiously walk inside, ready for more to descend upon you at a moment’s notice. You try to open it with your hands but it doesn’t budge. Tapping it with the head of your staff, you work magic into the locking mechanism, pushing the tumblers into place and easing the chest open. Inside, you find a pair of boots made from rough hide. Seeing as there’s nothing else in the chest, they have to be lyrium infused.

You decide to strip off your boots and replace them with the ones in the chest. Until someone checks, they’ll be none the wiser.

“Anuriel, what’s taking you so long?”

“I’m stealing boots,” you deadpan.

“You— _what?_ _Why_? Are you serious?”

“I’m stealing boots,” you repeat, standing up and flexing your toes in them. They’re fairly comfortable, but seem a little too big and could use some wearing in. You doubt they were made with an elf in mind.

“You know what? Fine. I don’t care. Just hurry up and let’s get out of here already, Jowan and Lily are waiting on us,” his head jerks around anxiously. Sure, that’s his only reason for wanting to leave. _Right_. But you’ll let him keep his false bravado.

Your healing skills come in handy as you get deeper into the caverns and start encountering more spiders, and ones of the venomous kind. If you couldn’t still sense the vague direction of everyone overhead, you’d probably be lost twice over by now. Eventually, you somehow manage to find your way back into the large chamber at the beginning of the storerooms, exhausted and demoralized.

“Let’s just get out of here, tell Senior Enchanter Leorah they’re dead, and never, _ever_ come back here,” Hadrian pants.

“Agreed,” you use magic to flick all the spider gore off of you and Hadrian. Wouldn’t do to walk through the Tower looking like you’ve just come back from a murder spree – even if it would be accurate.

If you didn’t command such power over the Fade, you’d probably have nightmares over this. You almost feel sorry for Hadrian.

“You’re back! Are the spiders gone?” She peers over your shoulders as if she’d be able to tell.

“They’re dead,” you tell her. Most of them, anyway. It’s impossible to tell if you’ve gotten all of them. They might come back.

“Oh, wonderful! You’re a life-saver, Anuriel! Now, where is that form you wanted me to sign?”

You pull it out and hand it to her. It still has a bit of gore on it. You honestly can’t be bothered to care.

She directs a dubious look at it, but takes it anyway, shying away from the gore-splattered bits. “Right…” with a flourish, she picks up one of the quills lying around and jots down her signature, “There you go. How’s that?” She hands it back to you.

“Perfect. Thanks,” you reply with minimal enthusiasm.

“It was a pleasure. Ever since you became my student, I knew you’d go far in the Circle, Anuriel,” she winks at you.

“Just make sure to keep away the spiders,” Hadrian interjects.

“Oh, I will,” Leorah assures, “Thank you again.” She waves you off as you leave. You still feel like a bath wouldn’t hurt, but you don’t have time. Maybe you should invent showers? Or does Thedas already have that? Sounds like something Orlais or Tevinter would have. _Sigh_. Why does it have to be the two worst countries?

In your haste, you almost walk directly into Cullen. “O-Oh, Anuriel, I—”

_Nope._ You about-face and take the long way, cutting through one of the libraries to get to the stockroom in the central chamber.

“Oh Maker,” Hadrian chortles, trying to stifle his laughter with his hand, “That was hilarious! The poor lad! You’re ruthless, Nuri, absolutely ruthless!”

“ _Savage,_ ” you mutter under your breath in English. Hadrian doesn’t seem to hear you; too busy trying to regain control of his giggles.

“Welcome to the Circle’s stockroom of magical items. My name is Owain. How may I assist you?”

You brusquely hold the form in front of him without a word. You’re too tired for pleasantries.

He doesn’t even blink at the gore-splatter paper thrust in front of his eyes, reading across it lazily, “Everything looks to be in order.” He takes it from you to file away, and a brief moment passes before one of the Tranquil inside brings him the rod. He holds it out to you, “Here is the rod you requested. Have a good day.”

You make a non-verbal sound of acknowledgement, and take it from his grasp. Finally. Now to meet up with Jowan and Lily.

You walk into the chapel with Hadrian for the third – and hopefully last – time.

“I hate waiting. It makes me nervous,” you overhear Jowan speaking to Lily.

“I have the rod of fire,” you announce.

“What took you so long?” Jowan scowls.

“Spiders,” you deadpan.

“What? I— never mind,” Jowan decides not to ask.

“To the repository, then,” Lily says, “Freedom awaits.”

For all of us.

You quickly make your way down to the first floor during dinner, when the halls are emptier, and most of the Templars are withdrawn to the dining hall.

You stick to the shadows, long used to sneaking around outside Templar supervision. Lily is the only one unused to this, but it’s easy enough to teach her how to soften her footsteps. If you are caught now… you won’t be able to talk your way out of this easily.

Constantly looking over your shoulders, you make it to the basement, quietly filing in. Immediately inside the entrance, you are confronted with a broad, imposing door, humming with magic. It dwarfs even the human members of the party.

…Why are all of your friends human? Is it leftovers from who you were before? Your time spent in the alienage should have surely given you cause to find community among the elves? You suppose it is because all your elven friends are there, and Jowan was the one to reach out to you and Hadrian here. Merely a quirk of fate.

“The Chantry calls this entrance ‘The Victim’s Door,’” Well, that’s pleasant, “It is built of two-hundred and seventy-seven planks, one for each original Templar. It is a reminder of all the dangers those cursed with magic pose,” Lily exposits.

“Gift,” you interject harshly.

“What?” she looks at you in question.

“Magic is a _gift_. It says so in the Chant of Light; Transfigurations. ‘Foul and corrupt are they who have taken _His gift_ and turned it against his children.’ And you should know that, _priest_ ,” you look down your nose at her sharply. Because you’re so short, you have to tilt your head up first to make it work, but whatever.

“I— You are right,” Lily looks chagrinned. As she should. “Forgive me, I had forgotten.”

Well, at least she didn’t claim to misspeak. And apologized sincerely too; that’s more than you’ve gotten out of _most_ Chantry officials.

“How do you know all this?” Hadrian asks, breaking the tension.

“Initiates must learn the Circle’s history if they are to work with Templars and mages,” she elaborates. Makes sense. Also, conspicuous that it isn’t included in the lessons apprentices learn, but such as it is.

“How do we get past?”

“The door can be opened only by a Templar and a mage, entering together. The Chantry provides the password, which primes the ward, and the mage touches it with mana, to release it.”

“I trust you have the password?”

“Yes. I got it from a Templar who recently accompanied a mage into the vault.”

“And you didn’t raise suspicions?”

“We have chatted on many occasions. I believe he trusts me.”

Hadrian buts in, “Since you have the password, couldn’t Jowan have helped you enter?”

“The ward only responds to the touch of one who has been through the Harrowing.” Sound reasonable. Must be some pretty heavy enchantments on it though, in that case. You wonder how it can tell if a mage has been Harrowed?

“If it’s that heavily warded, how do we know it isn’t keyed to something in the Irving’s office? Or the Knight-Commander’s?” you ask warily.

“We don’t, but we have come this far. It is too late to back out now; not with freedom so close I can almost taste it. We shall just have to hurry. First, the password…” Lily walks in front of the door and bows her head, but speaks loud enough for the rest of you to hear, “‘Sword of the Maker, Tears of the Fade’”.

The door’s hum intensifies. What pompous nonsense.

“I heard something,” Hadrian informs you. So, you weren’t the only one to hear that this time? Fascinating.

“The password only primes the door, now it must feel the touch of mana,” she turns expectantly to you, “Any spell will do, but hurry, please.”

Well, pompous door is still no reason to get fancy. You’ll just stick to the usual. Without removing your staff from its sling, you fire a bolt of lightning at the door. The hum intensifies further, reaching a crescendo. Runes flare brightly around the door and then—! …It swings open anticlimactically.

There _is_ a charred spot on the wood though. Oops. Maybe you shouldn’t have chosen primal?

You follow the others through the door— and stumble as you walk into a field of complete silence. Nothing but the breathing and footsteps of your comrades. No humming, no singing, absolutely _nothing_.

The Tower is never _silent_.

“Are you okay?” Jowan asks with concern.

“Jowan, I— try casting a spell!” you shout in desperation.

“What? Why?”

“Can’t you feel this? There’s no magic in the air. None!” You shiver, suddenly devoid of any warmth.

“What do you mean?” He raises his hand and traces out an arcane symbol. Nothing happens. He runs through a few others, growing frantic, “I… she’s right! I don’t know how she knew right away, but I can’t cast any spells! Nothing works!”

Lily takes a closer look at the door, “These wards carved into the stone… This must be the Templars’ work. They negate any magic cast within this area.” More than that. There is no _Fade_ here! Completely cut off from it! “I should have guessed! Why would Greagoir and Irving use simple keys for such a door? Because magical keys don’t work! How do you keep mages away from something? Make their powers completely worthless!” Lily despairs, “That’s it then! We’re finished! We can’t get in.”

You knew it was a magic door. All those spiders… for _nothing_. But you can’t give up yet.

Recovering slightly, but by no means alright – it’s so _quiet_ , it’s _never_ this quiet! – you gesture to another door, farther down the corridor, and gasp out, “What about that door? Where’s that one lead?”

“I don’t know. Do you think it’s another way in?”

“That door probably leads to another part of the repository. What are the chances of there being another entrance?”

“Slim to none,” you gasp out, still reeling. Are those black spots? “But if there isn’t, we can make one. What’s a wall to a sufficiently determined mage? I’m down for anything as long as it gets me away from _here_.” If you never have to experience this again, you will be a happy woman.

“Do we have a choice?” Hadrian inputs grimly.

“No. I’ll take any chance I can get,” Jowan says determinedly.

“We can’t get into the chamber the way we planned, but we’re not about to give up,” Lily states, “We can see where this door leads, but I don’t think it’ll be easy… it looks locked for one.”

“And it might be guarded,” you comment, feeling better the farther you get from that Maker-forsaken door.

“Then let us pray the maker smiles upon us…” Lily smiles at you grimly.

“Let’s hurry…” Jowan says, “We’ve wasted enough time.”

“The rod should work on _those_ locks, shouldn’t it?” Hadrian snarked.

Walking out of the bubble is also jarring, but far less debilitating. The bustle of the Tower is… calming. Familiar. To have spent so long surrounded by the Fade, and then the thinnly Veiled, magic saturated Tower, it is disturbing to be cut off from it all. No wonder mages fear being Silenced by Templars. Fighting them seems like it would be… unpleasant.

“I’m not giving up,” Jowan mutters behind you, “We’ve come too far.”

You retrieve the rod and channel mana into it. The lyrium inside reacts, and the crystal length glows, erupting with a jet of fire. You keep it up until the lock turns red, melting off and dripping down the door – it smells like burning wood.

You all whip around when you hear the clang of armor behind you. The armor that was standing by the wall animates, drawing its sword from its scabbard and turning towards you.

“Oh, that’s not good…” Jowan groans.

Lily hangs back, due to not having any weapons as an initiate.

Jowan hurls a gout of flame at it, but it doesn’t do much beyond make the armor hot. It would boil a person alive if they were inside, but nobody is. Hadrian tries lightning, then paralysis, but it receives much of the same response. You are the only one to make a difference; first inscribing a glyph of paralysis beneath it to freeze it in its tracks, then projecting a cage of telekinetic force. The pressure causes the armor to cave with an ear-splitting screech of metal. You don’t stop until it is crumpled into a ball the size of your fist.

“Phew. Quick thinking, Nuri,” Hadrian complements you. You grunt. Idiots.

You make your way through the passage, cutting down more animated armor as you go. You’re responsible for most of the damage dealt, but Hadrian manages to pull his own, and you hand Jowan the rod so he can create flames hot enough to melt them. Despite the temptation, you ignore all the side-rooms of the repository, short on time as it is.

You hit a snag when you come across a new enemy – a spirit in the form of a— is that a headless fucking mage? What the hell!?

It hurls a chunk of stone from one of the walls at you. You throw yourself out of the way, with it missing you by scant inches. Well, you were trying to avoid property damage before, but two can play at that game. You hurl two chunks of stone at the armor on either side of it, caving in their chests and pinning them down. Now that you can focus on the spirit without distraction, you clash your mana against theirs; completely draining them of it and causing them to lose their corporeality and fade away.

“I can’t wait to get out of here,” Lily says, white as a sheet, “These things are… not of the Maker.”

Well, seeing as they’re spirits, they technically _are_ ‘of the Maker’, as His ‘firstborn’, _but_ … You are far more concerned by the implications of their appearance. If there was one spirit, that likely meant that all the armor you have been pummeling are also spirits… _Bound_ ones. Slaves to the mages’ whims.

A wave of fury hit you. How _dare_ they? How _dare_ they act like such hypocrites; reviling all spirits as demons, and those who summon them, and then turn around and bind them as their slaves!? What pathetic perversion of free-will and justice was this?

You want to burn the whole Circle to the ground and the Chantry with it. But you are running low on time as it is, and have no knowledge of how to free them. But mark your words, you will _learn_ and there will be a _reckoning_. The world will know your fury.

Hadrian draws you from your dark thoughts, “Hey, it’s okay. They’re dead now, see?” He doesn’t understand. None of them would. Because spirits aren’t _people_ to them – they don’t see how it’s _slavery_.

You shrug off his hand, and continue onwards, a dark scowl overtaking your face.

If you were the praying type, you’d send a prayer for the brethren you cut down on the way to your goal. You hope they find peace eventually.

Past them is a herd of deepstalkers in a larger chamber; how they got in is anyone’s guess. Perhaps they are yet another defense? They are hideous things; mouths with lips pulled back like a leach, exposing gums and teeth, bulging eyes, and disturbingly human hands. You shiver when you see them, wanting to erase their image from your brain.

Still not as viscerally horrifying as giant spiders though.

Either way, they’re wily creatures, and manage to take a good few chunks out of all of you while dodging your attacks. You decide to take a moment to regain your stamina and mana. In the short peace, you work on healing everyone back into prime shape. Looking through the cabinets for potions, you find an enchanter’s cowl. It’s made of soft, purple velvet, and adorned with feathers. Protective runes are embroidered around its rim in gold trim. You decide to keep it.

“Hey, Jowan, what will you do after you escape?” Hadrian takes a moment during the breather to question, breaking the silence filled only with harsh breaths and the soft hum of magic.

“Lily and I will get married somewhere… away from the Circle and its rules,” Jowan tells him wistfully.

“Perhaps in the outskirts of Ferelden,” Lily suggests with a smile.

“Or in Orlais. Just… far from here. We’ll live a quiet life, away from magic. Maybe we can buy a farm one day.” What is with these two and running away to Orlais? It’s a horrible place.

“A farm? Well, suit yourself,” Hadrian derides, “How did you even meet Lily, anyway? You never told us.”

“She was saying the Chant of Light in the chapel one night while I was walking past… I’ve heard the Chant many times, but I never realized how beautiful the words were until then,” he smiles at her sappily.

“Stop it, you’re making me ill,” Hadrian fake gags. Another moment of silence, and then— “Hey, Jowan, do you know where your family is?” It’s asked much more softly and solemnly than Hadrian’s usual boisterous voice.

“No, and I don’t care,” Jowan spits, “Why?”

“How could you not care!?” Hadrian shouts back, practically offended.

“My parents hated me,” Jowan says. Hadrian’s rage immediately leaves him, making him sag forward tiredly. “I came here a year or so before you did, same as Anuriel. I must have been… five or six years old. Mother stopped talking to me after I showed signs of magical ability. She wouldn’t even look at me. She’d mutter under her breath that I was a demon child, and an abomination in the Maker’s eyes.”

“Well, you are somewhat demonic-looking,” Hadrian attempts to joke. It falls flat in the heavy atmosphere.

“Mother could be cruel… especially if you got on her bad side, which was easy to do,” he continues, “She’d fight with my father, saying she didn’t want ‘that thing’ – meaning me – in her house. Guess that’s what drove him to leave me at the village chantry. I suppose it’s just as well, or else I wouldn’t have met Lily,” he laughs wetly. Lily places her hand over his, squeezing it in comfort.

“The Templars killed my father for harboring apostates,” Hadrian blurts, unprompted. You suppose he felt compelled to share, “My mother ran off when I was little – too little to remember much of her, really – a few years after Cyril was taken to the Circle in Kirkwall. Everyone else remembers her except Gillian – my twin. Dad took us and ran off. He kept us together, even after we all turned out to be mages. Loved us despite it— no, in spite of it. He was a fugitive from Tevinter – he had more reason to hate us than most. But he didn’t. And the Templars killed him for it.” Another heavy silence punctuates the end of his story.

Tevinter, huh? Not what you would have pegged him for, but you can see it. Well, if everyone is sharing their sob-stories and tragic backstories, you might as well share yours. You cancel the mana going into your hands, finished with healing, “My mother tried to have me killed for being an abomination. I’m only alive because the Templar didn’t jump the gun.”

The silence turns awkward.

“Well, you win this round, ‘Nuriel,” Hadrian laughs, slapping his knee. He raises an imaginary glass with a wry grin, “To horrible mothers!”

“To horrible mothers,” everyone except Lily echoes his cheer, although with less enthusiasm.

“…Wait, what’s a _gun_?”

Break over, you head out, still on a time-crunch. You come upon three more guards in the dungeons. Handcuffs dangle from the ceiling and bones litter the floors of the cages. How many have died in here? Hadrian seems particularly uncomfortable; his time spent locked in one of the cells is probably still a bad memory.

You move on, finally coming to the main repository chamber. You spread out to look around the room. You peer at a display case. Inside is a staff of black wood, with dark, spidery veins crawling over it. Where the wood ends and the metal begins is unclear.

“Yeah, no,” you back away from it. That thing looks evil and tainted. Carrying around evil staffs is generally not a good idea.

Strewn around are more magical artifacts; a large glass globe, inside which was a miniature model of a solar system; a bizarre statue with four arms, dragon wings, and an elongated head like a squid; several hearts and an egg of unknown animals; another bizarre taxidermy of a creature like a giant mole, but with three heads, tusks, and an unsettling mouth full of fangs.

As you’re examining that last one, the statue beside you speaks, “Greetings.”

“Maker’s breath! Did it just say something?” Jowan yelps from farther across the room. They all quickly regroup beside you to gawk at the talking statue. Personally, you don’t think it’s so bizarre – many spirits take the shape of inanimate objects in the Fade. Talking statues really aren’t too out there.

“I am the essence and spirit of Eleni Zinovia, once consort and adviser to Archon Valerius. Prophecy my crime, cursed to stone for foretelling the fall of my lord’s house,” it introduces itself – herself, you suppose, for as much as gender matters to a hunk of rock.

“Archon Valerius?” you inquire, hoping she will elaborate.

“I’m not sure. The Archons were the lords of the Imperium,” Jowan answers instead.

“‘Forever shall you stand of the threshold of my proud fortress,’ he said, ‘and tell you lies to all who pass…’ But my lord found death at the hands of his enemies, and his once-proud fortress crumbled to stone, just as I foretold.”

“A Tevinter statue! Don’t listen to it!” Lily hisses as she draws Jowan away, but he resists her insistent tugging, “The Tevinter lords dabbled in many forbidden arts! This is a wicked thing!” It’s also an interesting thing. How were they able to turn her to stone without killing her, you wonder?

“It must be very old,” Hadrian remarks.

“It must have been here for years; look at the dust. I feel a little sorry for it… her,” Jowan tacks on.

“Weep not for me child,” the statue cautions, “Stone they made me and stone I am; eternal and unfeeling. And I shall endure ‘till the Maker returns to light their fires again.” Unfeeling? Like Tranquility? Well, that rules out her being a spirit possessing the statue, you guess. But how did they bind her soul to it and make it unfeeling? Is it just the lack of chemicals and neurons?

“Is there any way to help you?” you ask. It would be fascinating to talk with her more; get her perspective on the old Tevinter Imperium during its prime. And you want to hear more about these ‘prophecies’ she gives, especially if they can be proven.

“No help can be given me, for this is my doom and my destiny,” she refutes. A shame.

“Ambiguous rubbish,” Jowan scoffs, “It could mean anything. Look, I can do it too: The sun grows dark, but lo! Here comes the dawn!” Hadrian snickers at his mockery.

“He shall not be vanquished until the Great Brecilian Forest comes against him at Southron Hill,” he joins in, referencing one of the prophecies in Macbeth.

“Stop talking to it. Please, all of you,” Lily begs.

“Yes, we should get a move on,” you turn away from the statue.

Lily’s expression falls into relief, and she tugs harder on Jowan’s arm, finally succeeding in moving him. “Come on, Jowan. Let’s go.”

Beside the statue, you spy a set of elaborately decorated robes, of fine make. There are likely powerful enchantments woven into it, and if nothing else, it should fetch a pretty penny. Meanwhile, Jowan walks over to another statue, near the center of the room, this one of a mabari. “What do you think this does?”

“Why does the Circle keep so many Tevinter artifacts in storage?” Lily frets.

“Because it’s history, Lily… And it’s fascinating,” he responds. More like they’re seen as dangerous artifacts and the Chantry doesn’t want anyone else getting their hands on them.

“I think this one’s merely decorative,” Hadrian comments, smirking.

“Do you think there’s a spirit of a mabari in this one, too?” You joke back. He snorts.

“No, I’ve seen pictures of things like these!” Jowan exclaims excitedly, “They amplify any spell cast into them. I bet we could use this to break into the phylactery chamber!”

“Are you sure? That sounds like it would be loud,” you point out.

“It’s our best option,” he replies, then points to the wall in front of it, “See where the mortar might be decaying behind that bookcase? Let’s take a closer look.” He walks over to it, “It should be pretty easy to move this out of the way.”

“Alright, Jowan, move the bookcase,” Hadrian goads.

“I can’t do it on my own, you have to help me!” he snaps back, “If we work together, we can shift it, come on.”

You roll your eyes, but follow him over and help him shove the bookcase aside. A few books fall from their perch onto the floor. Once you have it sufficiently out of the way, he leads you back over to the mabari statue spell amplifier. Weird thing to make into a magical artifact, but hey, that’s Ferelden.

Jowan points the rod at the amplifier and channels mana into the rod. As the flame hits the statue, it’s absorbed by it, and is re-channeled out its mouth, hitting the wall where the bookcase was. The heat easily melts away the decaying mortar, and the stones tumble to the ground with loud, heavy thumps. Hopefully, you’re too far down for anyone to have heard that. It’s too late at night to pass it off as standard Circle noises.

You carefully step over the fallen blocks and into the phylactery chamber. “This is the phylactery chamber; it worked!” Jowan shouts, overjoyed. You’re finally getting somewhere.

Of course, as soon as you think that, three more sentinels come alive and rush to engage you. You three make quick work of them, and hurry up the stairs to the phylacteries. They each glitter like dark jewels, suffusing the chamber with crimson light. You can feel the vibration of them under your skin. Their song doesn’t sound pleasant, but it almost drowns out everything else.

“We must find Jowan’s phylactery quickly,” Lily reminds you unnecessarily.

“Pity they’ve taken ours to Denerim,” you remark.

“Would you destroy yours too, if were here?” Jowan asks.

Hadrian scoffs, “Of course. Then we could escape with you without eventually being hunted down.”

“You still can,” Lily consoles, “I don’t think they’ll be able to catch you, once you’re out of here. You’d know how to evade them. You’re both clever… not like me.”

“Let’s just find my phylactery,” Jowan quickly changes the subject and the topic is dropped.

As you walk up the steps, one phylactery’s glow intensifies. That must be Jowan’s. He walks over and picks it up off the shelf, “This is my phylactery! I can’t believe this tiny vial stands between me and freedom. So fragile, so easy just to be rid of it… to end its hold over me…” He drops it. It shatters upon impact with the ground, spraying blood on his feet and sending shards of glass everywhere. “…and I am free.”

Huh. You had imagined a bigger room, with more phylacteries, but you suppose only apprentice phylacteries are stored here. You doubt the chamber could hold the phylacteries for all the mages within the Circle.

“The sooner we’re out of here, the better,” Hadrian grumbles.

“I do not want to stay here a moment longer,” Lily agrees, clearly unnerved by the forbidding atmosphere cast by the ruby light shed by the vials.

They begin walking towards the door with the magic nullification runes. “Oh, no, I’m not going near that thing again,” you declare, “Besides, what if it fries you the moment you touch it? And we still don’t know if it sets off an alarm. Let’s go back through the repository.”

“We don’t have _time_ , Anuriel! If that first door had an alarm, they could already be on their way. If one goes off when we use the door, we’ll be out of here by the time they make it to the basement,” Jowan says desperately.

“Here,” Hadrian comes closer and wraps one of your arms over his shoulder, “I’ll help you through, so you don’t slow us down. How come it affected you so badly in the first place?”

“Elf thing,” you brush off. It’s not like they can refute it. “We’re more sensitive to the Fade.”

Jowan pushes open the door and you feel magic pulse through it. You were right, there _was_ an alarm. You sag against Hadrian as he leads you through it. It’s not any easier the second time.

You make haste out of the basement and up the stairs. You step out into the landing under your own power, pushing off of Hadrian and taking a long, deep breath.

“We did it!” Jowan shouts half-incredulously. You immediately shoot him a glare; any louder and they’ll hear you in Antiva. “I can’t believe it! Thank you… we could never have—!”

The ringing clamor of armor heralds the approach of the Templars. Greagoir leads them forward imperiously, with Irving right beside him. “So, what you said was true, Irving,” Greagoir sneers, looking over you with cold, dark eyes.

You _knew_ this plan wasn’t going to work.

“G-Greagoir,” Lily stutters in shock. She takes a step back.

“An initiate conspiring with a _blood mage_ ,” he continues, “I’m disappointed, Lily.” He walks closer to her in scrutiny, “She seems shocked, but fully in control of her own mind. Not a thrall of the blood mage, then.” He walks back over to Irving, “You were right, Irving. The initiate has betrayed us. The Chantry will not let this go unpunished.”

He turns to Hadrian, “And this one; newly a mage, and already flouting the rules of the Circle.” Finally, his void gaze digs into you, burrowing under you skin like a maggot, “I always knew this one would be trouble. We should have never allowed her to undergo her Harrowing.”

That _bastard_. You always knew he wanted to make you Tranquil. If there is one thing you must be grateful to the First Enchanter for, it’s that he didn’t sign off on it. The trial-by-fire wasn’t much better, but it at least gave you a fighting chance.

“I’m disappointed in you,” Irving directs at Hadrian with doleful eyes, “You could have told me what you knew of this plan, and you didn’t.”

“You don’t care for the mages!” Jowan spits at him, “You just bow to the Chantry’s every whim!”

“Jowan’s right; you don’t care for the apprentices!” Hadrian joins in, although mostly directed at Greagoir.

You’d tell them not to make it worse, but they really can’t at this point. Not unless one of you becomes an abomination or uses blood magic. You’re the abomination, so that just leaves…

The Knight-Commander raises his gauntleted hand, demanding silence, “Enough! As Knight-Commander of Templars here assembled, I sentence this blood mage to death. And the initiate has scorned the Chantry and her vows. Take her to Aeonar.”

“The… the mages’ prison,” she sobs piteously, backing away from the two approaching Templars, “No… please, no, not there!”

She is right to be afraid. In Aeonar, the Veil in thinned to the point of near uselessness. Prisoners are tortured regularly, and held there until they turn into abominations – then slain. If one resists possession, they are still denied release. Instead, it is merely a hopeless waiting game.

“No!” Jowan cries, reaching into his robes and producing a knife, “I won’t let you touch her!” He slices his palm, blooding welling in the cut. He pulls on it, summoning its power, and lashes out at the Templars. They cry out in agony as their blood boils, falling over one by one. Irving collapses beside them.

The song of blood magic is… different. It does not echo in the Fade the way magic does. It does not sing like lyrium either. It is a low hum, a thrumming, like the one emitted by the phylacteries. A pulse – a heartbeat hammering away inside your head. It feels like it’s going to fill you up, spill over the brim, and swallow you whole. It calls to be used – hungers to consume.

“By the Maker… blood magic!” Lily exclaims, slowly putting distance between them, “H-how could you? You said you never…”

“I admit, I… I dabbled! I thought it would make me a better mage!” he tries to explain to her, but she won’t listen.

“Blood magic is evil, Jowan. It corrupts people… changes them…” she shakes her head.

“I’m going to give it all up. _All_ magic. I just want to be with you, Lily. Please, come with me…” he beseeches.

“I trusted you,” she whispers, “I was ready to sacrifice everything for you… I…” She seems to collect her resolve. “I don’t know who you are, blood mage. Stay away from me…” She points her hand towards the door.

You cannot see Jowan’s face, but you imagine he must look devastated. He takes a hesitant step back, then turns and runs for the doors leading to freedom.

Recovering from your first encounter with active blood magic, you tug on Hadrian’s arm, pulling him in the direction Jowan fled. “Come on, Hadrian! If we don’t leave now, they’ll wake up and capture us!”

He starts to come out of the shock he was in after Jowan’s violent display, “I… But what about Irving? We need to see if he’s alright! And what about Lily?”

“If we stay here, he won’t be able to help us, Hadrian,” you try to get through to him, “This is our chance. Our only chance. They’ll kill us, Hadrian – that’s the punishment for aiding a maleficar. Lily’s made her choice. It’s time to make ours.”

“But—!” One of the templars groan, starting the revive. Clearly, although Jowan knocked them all out, he didn’t succeed in killing everyone. It finally kicks Hadrian into gear.

He runs with you in the direction Jowan went. You make it all the way down to the docks, but are stumped on how to get across the lake. Jowan is already gone – you don’t know how he got away so quickly, but if you are to have any hope of escaping, you need to replicate it.

“I’ll freeze the water into ice and we’ll walk across,” you say, summoning your mana and directing it to cool the surface of the lake. Before you can get further than a brittle layer of frost, you are hit by another wave of absolute Silence. You reach out to the Fade, but it isn’t there.

They caught up to you. _Damn_. This is it then.

Hadrian tries to fight back, sending a blast of pure mana out of the tip of his staff, but it’s futile. One of them channels a Smite on him and he screams in agony, staggering to his knees as his mana burns in his veins.

They round you up with rough, tight grips, so as to not allow another escape attempt. You’re sure to develop bruises. They drag you back up the stairs into the Tower, and throw you in front of the First Enchanter and Greagoir.

This is it. This is the end.

You accept your fate with grim acceptance, staring the Knight-Commander in the eye. You will not be cowed, even in the face of death. Let them cut you down – you will find a new body, and begin again. So long as they stick to a physical means, they cannot kill you in a way that matters; not when you can retreat to the Fade to lick your wounds and scheme in secret.

Hadrian is trembling beside you, but he is quiet.

“And what do you two have to say for yourselves, hm?” Irving glares down at you.

“There is a blood mage on the loose, and you helped him destroy his phylactery! Your antics have made a mockery of this Circle!” Greagoir spits down at us, “Taking the reveal of a Maleficar as a chance to flee? Despicable! Or are you blood mages as well? Were you in league with him?”

“Whatever you're going to do, just do it,” Hadrian whispers, not meeting anyone’s eyes, “I stand by my decision to help Jowan, so just get it over with.” He brings his eyes up to glare at Greagoir with fire in his eyes.

Greagoir’s nostrils flare dangerously, “All our prevention measures for naught – because of you! There is only one punishment for your blasphemy!” He begins to draw his sword. Irving does nothing to stop him; a silent observer.

“Knight-Commander, if I may…” Duncan’s voice stays his hand. The sword rests scant centimetres from your neck, “I am not only looking for mages to join the king’s army. I am also recruiting for the Grey Wardens.” His armored footfalls come to a stop behind you, “These mages show great potential; I would like to invite them to join the Warden ranks.”

Hadrian jerks his head over his shoulder, staring back at Duncan incredulously. His mouth hangs open in shock. You imagine your face isn’t much better.

“Duncan, these mages have assisted a Maleficar, and shown a lack of regard for the Circle’s rules,” Irving discourages.

“They are a danger. To all of us,” Greagoir bites out, sword still poised to strike. You do not dare to breath.

“It is a rare person who risks all for a friend in need. I stand by my decision. I _will_ recruit these mages,” Duncan declares.

“No!” Greagoir cuts through the air with the hand not holding the sword at your neck, “I refuse to let this go unpunished!”

“If the Wardens will take me, I will gladly go,” you quickly input. You have no idea what’s happening, but if you’re reading things correctly, you might actually get out of here with your head still attached.

“Me too! I’ve always wanted to prove myself as a mage,” Hadrian nervously contributes, eyeing the other speakers deciding your fates.

“Greagoir,” Duncan coaxes, “Mages are needed. These mages are needed. Worse things plague this world than blood mages— you know that. I take these young mages under my wing and bear all responsibility for their actions.”

“That does not change that their actions must have consequences! I refuse to relinquish these mages into your custody and allow you to reward them for their ill deeds! Their punishment has been decided, and it is execution!”

“A waste of their gift,” Duncan mutters. “So be it. I hereby invoke the Right of Conscription. These mages, from the Circle of Ferelden, are conscripted into the Grey Warden ranks,” he announces.

“I, Irving, First Enchanter of the Circle of Ferelden, bear witness to this,” Irving recites.

“A blood mage escapes, and his accomplices are not only unpunished, but rewarded by becoming Grey Wardens? Are our rules nothing? Have we lost all authority over our mages? This does not bode well, Irving,” Greagoir growls.

“Enough,” Irving cuts him off, “We have no more say in this matter – it is out of our hands.”

“So, we are to be Grey Wardens?” Hadrian asks meekly, “ _I_ am to be a Grey Warden?”

“Yes,” Irving responds, softening slightly in the face of his favored pupil, “Be proud, child. You are luckier than you know.”

Greagoir puts away his sword, and you are allowed to climb back onto your feet. You still feel his eyes burning into you.

“Go and gather your belongings,” Duncan commands, “We have much ground to cover, and do not want to overstay our welcome.”

You and Hadrian stagger off in the direction of your bedchambers in a daze, followed by a small guard of Templars. Did that actually just happen? Are you both Grey Wardens now? Just like that?

As you walk through the halls, Hadrian begins laughing hysterically, causing the supervising Templars to clench the pommels of their swords tighter.

“Andraste’s bountiful bosom! Did we really just survive that? Am I dreaming?” Hadrian questions deliriously, “I’ve always admired the Wardens… But to have one come in and save our necks like that? And in the nick of time, too! HAHAhahaheee!” He wheezes painfully, stumbling as he walks, “We nearly died, Nuri! They almost killed us! Jowan’s a blood mage and we almost died!”

He keeps raving and laughing madly until you split off to go to your separate quarters. You quickly and quietly pack all your things away in the large, drawstring bag you were given by one of the Tranquil. There isn’t much to collect. Just a few books, scrolls, and interesting knickknacks you’d managed to acquire. You’re mostly loaded up on potions, and you grab a few more sets of your Enchanter robes just to be safe. When you reemerge, Hadrian is already waiting for you. The orange glow of the lamps is reflected by the tear-tracks on his cheeks. You can’t tell if they’re from laughing or crying.

It doesn’t really matter.

You meet back up with Duncan downstairs. There’s no time for goodbyes. He leads you down, out of the Tower, and to the docks where a boat and ferryman wait.

“We will be travelling south through the hinterlands to the ruins of Ostagar, on the edges of the Korcari Wilds,” Duncan explains as the boat sways beneath you.

You drop your head back and gaze at the stars. You have not seen the open sky in fifteen years. You have always loved the stars, but never before have they looked so beautiful.

Hadrian looks a little seasick, leaning over the side of the boat and groaning.

Duncan books a bed for you at the Spoiled Princess Inn – luckily, the namesake is nowhere to be found this time – and you set out again in the morning. You manage to tie your bag around your staff, allowing you to use it as a walking stick and not have your arms cramping with the exertion. Your robe still weighs you down though; you had managed to keep your stolen goods from being discovered and confiscated. On one of the nights you stop to make camp, you shove a good amount of it into the bag as well.

The walking is surprisingly easy. One might think that Circle mages would be easily exhausted by strenuous activity – what with sitting around all day reading books – but the stairs in the Tower are a good workout, and the staves you flail around aren’t particularly lightweight. Most mages you’ve known have toned thighs and biceps. You aren’t pushovers. Would you be a match for a warrior? No; but you could hold your own against a commoner.

The path you carve mostly sticks to the Imperial Highway as you make your way around Lake Calenhad and through the Hinterlands. Along the way, Duncan teaches you some things about how to deflect sword strikes with your stave, and how to hunt, prepare, and cook animals in the wild. When he tries to teach you how to light a fire, you look him dead in the eye and shoot a fireball at the pit. He laughs. Maybe, if you get your hands on a needle and some thread, you can teach Hadrian how to sew.

As you’re finally approaching Ostagar, Duncan decides to provide more exposition, “The Tevinter Imperium built Ostagar long ago to prevent the Wilders from invading the northern lowlands. It’s fitting we make our stand here, even if we face a different foe within that forest. The king’s forces have clashed against the darkspawn several times, but here is where the bulk of the horde will show itself. There are only a few Grey Wardens within Ferelden at the moment, but all of us are here.” You pass under a great, decaying arch as you enter the fortress. “This Blight must be stopped here and now. If it spreads to the north, Ferelden will fall.”

With that cheery statement out of the way, you are stopped by a man wearing ostentatious gold armor, brilliantly reflecting the light of the sun, and two guards – personal ones, given how important all three manage to look.

“Ho there, Duncan!” The man in gold greets, holding out an arm.

Duncan walks forward to clasp it in a warrior’s embrace, gripping his forearm, “King Cailan? I didn’t expect—”

“A royal welcome?” The man – _king_ apparently – cuts him off, “I was beginning to worry you’d miss all the fun!”

“Not if I could help it, your Majesty,” Duncan demures.

“Then I’ll have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all! Glorious! The other Wardens told me you’ve found a few promising new recruits. I take it this is them?”

“Allow me to introduce you, your Majesty,” Duncan begins.

King Cailan interrupts him again, “No need to be so formal, Duncan. We’ll be shedding blood together, after all,” he turns to you, “Ho there, friends! Might I know your names?”

“I highly doubt it, but anything is possible,” Hadrian jokes. You swear, if Hadrian manages to piss off the king, you will kill him yourself.

Luckily, he seems to take it in good humor, “You’ve got yourself a lively one, Duncan. And here I was beginning to think the Wardens were all stodgy priests! And may I have yours, my lady?”

My lady? You’ve never been called that one before. Well, at least he has decent manners – more than most humans, anyway. No reason not to return them. “Enchanter Anuriel Surana, your Majesty,” you perform what barely counts as a curtsey. You do not bow your head, maintaining direct eye contact.

“Pleased to meet you!” he enthuses. Hmm, he seems to actually mean that. “The Grey Wardens are desperate to bolster their numbers, and I, for one, am glad to help them.” Did he just imply that Duncan only recruited you because he’s desperate? “I understand you both hail from the Circle of Magi. I trust you have some spells to help us in the coming battle?”

“All mages are trained in the art of war. We are some of the brightest,” you inform him.

“Excellent. We have too few mages here, another is always welcome.” He is rather loud and exuberant, but rather than being too irritating, it’s more like being slobbered on by a big, stupid puppy. Annoying, but not unmanageable. “Allow me to introduce you to Ostagar. The Wardens will benefit greatly with you in their ranks.”

“Thank you, your Majesty,” you reply. That makes up for his implication earlier.

“Of course they will,” Hadrian smirks, “We’re brilliant.”

“I’m sorry to cut this short, but I should return to my tent. Loghain waits eagerly to bore me with his strategies.” Uh-oh, no king should ever put the words ‘bore’ and ‘strategies’ in the same sentence. Alarm bells are ringing. You already didn’t have a very good feeling about this upcoming battle.

“Your uncle sends his greetings and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week,” Duncan informs Cailan.

“Ha! Eamon just wants in on the glory. We’ve won three battles against these monsters and tomorrow should be no different,” the king boasts.

“It sounds like the Blight is almost over,” Hadrian says with delight.

“You sound very confident of that,” you remark.

“Overconfident, some would say. Right, Duncan?” Cailan laughs.

“Your Majesty, I’m not certain the Blight can be ended quite as… quickly as you might wish.” Something tells you Duncan is right.

“I’m not even sure this is a true Blight,” Cailan brushes him off, “There are plenty of darkspawn on the field, but alas, we’ve seen no sign of an archdemon.”

“Disappointed, your Majesty?” Duncan asks dubiously.

“I’d hoped for a war like in the tales! A king riding with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted God! But I suppose this will have to do,” he finishes lacklusterly.

You most certainly hope it’s _not_ like in the tales. The tragedies of the past Blights are well-documented in the Circle. And why is the king riding out to battle with us in the first place? Why is he even at Ostagar? Shouldn’t he be in Denerim, overseeing the war from there? If the king dies of the front-lines, it will be a demoralizing blow for all of Ferelden.

“I must go before Loghain sends out a search party. Farewell, Grey Wardens!” He turns and marches back into the fortress’s interior flanked by his honor guard.

Duncan turns to address both of you, “What the king said is true. They’ve won several battles against the darkspawn.”

“Perhaps this isn’t a Blight after all?” Hadrian proposes hopefully.

“So some believe, but I disagree,” Duncan shoots him down.

“He didn’t seem to take the darkspawn very seriously,” you frown.

“True,” Duncan sighs, “Despite the victories so far, the darkspawn horde grows larger with each passing day. By now they look to outnumber us. I know there is an archdemon behind this. But I cannot ask the king to act solely on my feeling.”

“Why not?” Hadrian asks, “He seems to regard the Grey Wardens highly.”

“What would you prefer he do?” you ask instead.

“King Cailan believes our legend alone makes him invulnerable; I would prefer he wait for reinforcements. We sent out a call out west to the Grey Wardens of Orlais, but it will be many days before they can join us,” Duncan laments as he leads you forward, “Our numbers in Ferelden are too few. We must do what we can and look to Teyrn Loghain to make up the difference. To that end, we should proceed with the Joining ritual without delay.” He comes to a stop just before the bridge leading farther into the fortress.

“A hot meal might be nice first,” Hadrian quips. You second that. Anything other than charred nug would be delicious.

Duncan chuckles, ‘I agree! We have until nightfall to begin the ritual. Every recruit must go through a secret ritual we call the Joining in order to become a Grey Warden. The ritual is brief, but some preparation is required. We must begin soon.”

“Is this anything like the Harrowing?” Hadrian questions warily.

“It is an ordeal. I am sorry that you must endure another so soon.”

“Why is this ritual so secret?” you ask next. Something about this is fishy – and also ringing a familiar bell.

“The Joining is dangerous. I cannot speak more of it except to say that you will learn all in good time. Until then, you must trust that what is done is necessary.”

Well. That isn’t ominous in the slightest.

“Are we the only recruits?” Hadrian asks the final question.

“No, there are two other recruits here already. They have been waiting for us to arrive.”

“Wonderful,” Hadrian groans, “Let’s just get this over with, then, shall we?”

“Feel free to explore the camp here as you wish. All I ask is that you do not leave it for the time being. Until then, I have business I must attend to. You may find me at the Grey warden tent on the other side of this bridge, should you need to,” with that said, he strolls off along the bridge, leaving you alone with Hadrian once more.

“Well, do you suppose it’s too late to run, then?” Hadrian jokes, “I’ve always admired the Wardens, but I never saw myself becoming one. At least once I’ve joined their ranks, the Circle won’t be able to get their hands on me.”

“I don’t have any particular opinions on the wardens,” you tell him, “But I have a bad feeling about this upcoming battle. I don’t think we’re gonna win this one.”

Hadrian blows a raspberry at you. Child. “Oh, you’re always pessimistic, Anuriel. At least you don’t have to deal with lovestruck Rutherford anymore.” He makes disgusting kissy noises at you. You jab him in the ribs but he dances out of your reach, laughing. Quieting down, he flashes a roguish grin at you, “Well? Shall we then?”

You study him for a long moment, then nod. Matching strides, you take the first step into your new life together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclaimer: I haven't actually finished Inquisition yet, lol. I keep meaning to, and then getting distracted and putting it off. I HAVE consumed a large amount of fanfic about it, though. So I'm mostly spoiled up to date. Any content past Inquisition is likely to stay in the works until DA4 comes out. Other people may enjoy making up their own epilogues, but it's just not my style. I try to avoid anything that might end up outright contradicting canon.
> 
> On that note: Full credit to Project Elvhen by FenxShiral for helping me butcher together names.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


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